


Separation Anxiety

by ChaosKirin



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Age Progression, Anxiety Disorder, Body Swap, Depression, Fires, Gen, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ issues, Magic, Minor Injuries, Supernatural Elements, house fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 05:11:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 57,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18514585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaosKirin/pseuds/ChaosKirin
Summary: There's a house fire, and no one remembers how it started, or how they managed to get outside. But Roger, Freddie, Brian, and John aren't themselves, and they have no idea why. So not only do they have to worry about having no house, but they have to worry about solving a problem that should be impossible.





	1. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where it all goes awry.

It was a house fire, Brian remembered.

He coughed, trying to clear his lungs, but each time he took a breath, he felt like he was breathing in ash. He could hear the crackling, snapping planks and the death-groans of the support beams as they failed, one by one.

But there was no heat.

The last thing he remembered, Brian felt as if his skin was about to slough off and feed the inferno. But now, his fingers closed on cool grass. As he shifted, he felt his back scraping against the bark of the tree on which he was leaning. He had no recollection of how he escaped.

He opened burning, stinging eyes. A dark face was silhouetted against the glow of the yellow flames; at first, he couldn't make out the features, but he squinted, and found that he was staring at himself.

Ah, so he'd died. It made sense.

He - the other he, that was - looked worried. Frantic. Brian felt as if he should say something, so he mumbled, "I'm sorry, I don't believe in the afterlife."

Probably not the best thing to say to Death, who felt perfectly justified in wearing Brian's face while coming to collect him. What an _asshole._ Honestly, who did that?

"Hey, which one are you?" Death asked.

Seemed like an odd inquiry. And also, in the completely wrong accent. Clearly, the Grim Reaper hadn't done his Brian-Homework.

"Shouldn't you know?"

Brian closed his eyes again, trying to find good air, despite his smoky surroundings. Every breath hurt, which was stupid, considering he had already died and had no need for pain anymore. "Can't you just get this over with?"

"Hello? Hey!" His twin snapped his fingers in front of his face, and Brian cracked one eye open. "Who are you?"

"Who are any of us?" Brian answered, voice gravely. He looked up, through the leaves of the trees, toward the stars. But there weren't any stars, because the smoke from the fire still hung thickly in the air.

"Your name!"

"Brian."

"Okay, Brian, good. I'm Roger. Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay! I'm fucking //dead.//"

"Bri, you gotta wake up, buddy. Come on. Get... Uh. Conscious. Or whatever it is you do after... Whatever it was that happened."

"Rog."

"Yeah?"

"Rog, why do you look like me? Did you die, too?" Maybe Roger... was guiding him through the afterlife? No, that was stupid! What did Roger know about the afterlife, anyway? Or death, or heaven, or hell, or wherever they were supposed to be!

"We're not dead," Roger said. "At least, I'm pretty sure." He wrung his hands, glancing around nervously. "I really hope we're not."

Brian could see flashing red lights bouncing off the trees and houses around them, so someone had at least called Emergency. There were people milling around, too, staring at the wreckage of what was once a house. None of the bystanders looked in their direction; for the moment, they were unseen.

"So if... I'm Brian. And you're Roger..." Brian grunted, pushing himself onto his knees. He wasn't quite ready to stand just yet, especially because of the layer of black haze floating just above his head. Maybe he'd stay near the cool grass. "What about Freddie and John?"

"Them, I think?" Roger nodded toward two more people, lying still in the grass. As Brian focused, he noticed that one of them was, indeed, John. The other was...

"What d'you mean you're Roger?" Brian slurred, pointing at the figure who was _quite obviously Roger Taylor._ "You're right fucking there!"

"Whoever that is," Roger replied, darkly, "It ain't me. I know it sounds _way out there,_ but I'm really sure I'm Roger. _Really_ sure. I thought maybe I was just confused at first and that I was really you, which could have made sense if I'd hit my head? But if I was you, then why would I remember all the Roger stuff I remember? You know? And none of the Brian stuff?"

Brian would have liked some sort of explanation. If he wasn't dead, and he wasn't asleep, there had to be some other answer. He could have possibly been hallucinating, he supposed, although he felt far too grounded for that. "What do you..." he started, then he noticed that talking felt fundamentally different.

He stuck out his tongue, running them over teeth that felt like they were wrong somehow. In the wrong place? Out of order...? When he closed his mouth again, his front incisors sat over his bottom lip.

He felt his face. Short hair. A mustache. _He didn't have a mustache._

What the hell?

Roger was looking at him with a mix of panic and relief as Brian started to figure it out. "Good," Roger said. "So I'm not crazy."

"Roger?" Brian tried.

"Yeah?"

"You're really Roger?"

"I'm not so sure about the 'not crazy' thing. We might both be." Brian couldn't stop feeling his face. His ears. His teeth. His cheekbones. He couldn't make sense of it. He knew what he was thinking, of course, but that really did seem crazy. "Are you trying to tell us that we're..."

"In the wrong bodies. I suppose." Roger knelt down next to the other two. "And if we all are, then this must be John..." He shook the shoulders of whoever was inhabiting his body and said, "John? You hear me? Izzat you, buddy?"

In the wrong...? "What?"

"You really haven't caught on yet?" Roger asked. "Brian, c'mon. You're the smart one. You're Freddie. Or, at least, you're in his head."

Brian looked down at his hands, then at the shirt he was wearing, which said 'FIESTA' in large, red letters. That was Freddie's shirt all right.

Roger gave John's shoulder a shake. "Freddie? Is that you?"

No. It didn't make sense. "This is... Against all the laws of physics. The laws of the universe. At the very least, it's _highly_ scientifically unlikely!"

Roger said, "Then _you_ tell me what happened."

Brian couldn't. Honestly, he felt a little dizzy, unable to come to terms with what was turning out to be an actual, real situation that was totally happening and not just a nightmare. He gave his face a slap.

It seemed like the right thing to do.

"I did try that," Roger said, pointing to one cheek. "It hurts, and it didn't make anything make sense, either."

"You're _me!_ " Brian exclaimed. "And I'm... I'm... How are you so calm?"

"Don't concentrate on that right now, okay?" Roger asked. "I've just been thinking about... Getting you all awake and making sure you're all right, you know? It'll take your mind off it." He leaned down and shook what appeared to be his own shoulder again, though all things considered, it was probably John now. "John, if you can hear me, say something?"

John grunted and rolled onto his back.

"It's a start, I guess. Go on, Brian, see if you can wake Freddie..."

The sirens were getting closer now; the lights reflected off the windows and flashed in his eyes. To his credit, Brian did crawl closer to Freddie, but could only stare helplessly as his mind tried to formulate any scientific explanation for why they were like this. Consciousness wasn't a quantifiable thing... It couldn't just be bottled up and transferred from one vessel to another. It was formed and molded through a person's life, shaped inextricably to the body in which it began.

Or, that's what Brian always believed.

It was so dark. The red glow made their situation so much more surreal. How was he seeing his own sharp profile, stark against the flashing lights, leaning down next to John - or _Freddie -_ to check for breathing? He still hadn't ruled out the fact that he might just be dead, or that he was having an out of body experience, or just a really painful dream.  
  
He really should help Roger.

"Freddie?" Brian mumbled, still unsure. Honestly, John could have very well been in his own body, since they hadn't accounted for either of them. With their luck, though, everyone was going to waken to this problem. Why should John alone be spared? Still, Brian almost hoped John was okay, since he never adapted well to change.

John's nose wrinkled, and he said, "Did someone leave the toaster on, darling? Something's burning."

"Well, that's definitely Freddie," Roger confirmed. "which means this is John. He'd better take care of me, that's all I'm saying."

"You'd better take care of me, too," Brian replied.

That earned a half smile, which, surprisingly, put him at ease.

Brian held his breath as Freddie opened his eyes. Slowly at first, they immediately widened when he realized he was looking into his own face.

A "What the _fuck_?!" echoed from every house on the block.  
  


\---

  
John lowered Roger's glasses over his eyes and wrinkled his nose. Roger couldn't help a smile, though John didn't seem quite as amused. At least he was calm, which felt strange, since John should be the one really freaking out over everything. That was his job, wasn't it? Things went sideways, and John Deacon shouted and fussed and panicked 'til everything was back on the right track.  
  
Now that John was awake, though, it looked so very _absurd_ to Roger, watching his own body do these things he didn't have any control over. He wondered if that's how Brian felt when they first regained consciousness out on their lawn. In hindsight, maybe Roger shouldn't have been so up in his friend's face right after he woke up.

"They're cracked," John said.  
  
"Well, there was the fire and all," Roger replied. "You should be grateful I thought to check the time when I woke up."

"Smoke alarms go off, and your first thought is to..." Brian trailed off, looking at the others. "...check the time."

"Of course it was," Roger replied. It seemed silly now, though he'd been hungover, and it just felt like the right thing to do at the time.

"You are blind, you know," John said, raising the glasses and perching them on his head. "Couldn't you have taken your poor eyesight with you? Eh. It'll do for now, I suppose."

Roger felt that he sounded quite strange with John's accent and own personal brand of enunciation. He giggled.

"What?" John was instantly defensive, blue eyes narrow. "Am I doing something wrong?"

"No, no, just -- me, with your dialect. It's... Different."

"Oh. I guess it would be." He settled back in the emergency room's uncomfortable chair, sparing a glance at Freddie, who currently possessed his face.

Freddie hadn't said anything since his outburst back home.

"He's... Um. He's having... I think, when I'm very nervous..." John muttered. "Well, he's gone silent, is all. Processing."

That's why they were all in Freddie's partition, much to the chagrin of the hospital staff. It was far too small for four young adult men to be jammed into, and with doctors and nurses in and out, space was an important commodity. Not to mention the fact that if anyone visited the other partitions where Brian, Roger, and John were supposed to be, they'd find the small rooms deserted.

They'd all made the decision to not tell anyone - not the nurses, or the paramedics, or the doctors - what happened. It had no impact on their care anyway, except for when John had to remind the nurse taking care of Freddie that he had a latex allergy. Besides, who would believe them, anyway? They were all visibly fine, and understandably shaken from the fire. That's all anyone needed to know.

Well, Roger did have an IV. He'd apparently inhaled the most smoke. Or, rather, Brian had, and now Roger had to suffer the consequences.

And Freddie was shell-shocked.

"This happens to you a lot?" Brian asked gently.

"Not as much now," John said, looking at his hands. "But, I guess a fire, and now this... He'll come out of it, though. Don't worry."

He didn't sound entirely sure.

For a while, they mostly just stared at each other, incredulous, but curious. Roger felt as if he'd swallowed a dozen rocks, with how his stomach churned. Queasy and pained, as he tried to come to terms with the fact that he could look into his own face, but it wasn't a mirror. It was John. In fact, the more he thought about it, the sicker he felt. And it wasn't as easy to play off as normal. Glancing at Brian, he wondered if maybe he'd inherited the guitarist's tendency to...  
  
Falter emotionally.

Whereas John seemed almost at ease, all things considered. He took the glasses off again, rubbing them on his shirt. "I still can't believe it. It all seems impossible. It _should_ be impossible, shouldn't it? None of it makes sense--Oh, look, your glasses are fine, it was just dirt. Must have taken a bit to come off is all. See?"

Roger looked up. He tried to smile, though it _felt_ like he was grimacing. The others must have noticed, because the smile faded from John's face.

"You all right, Rog?" Brian asked. His teeth rested on his lower lip as he frowned - a thing Freddie would rarely do in company. Brian didn't seem to care, though.

"Just feeling a little sick, is all."  

"I am too, a little," Freddie said, as if he'd been part of the conversation all along. He raised his arms, looking at his hands, then gave a gentle tug on the IV line in the crook of his arm. "Oh dear. I spaced out for a bit," he muttered, slowly turning his attention to Brian. He narrowed his eyes, which almost disappeared under John's brows. "Darling, which one are you again?"

"Brian."

"Right, Brian. Just... Your lip, over the teeth, dear. Yes, like that. There."

"Freddie, don't worry about that right now," Roger said. "You really were out of it for, geez, it's been a couple hours?"

Roger couldn't help hooking onto someone else's problems. It made him think just a little bit less about his own, even though said problems were almost exactly the same. And he wanted to tell them all to look at the bigger picture, so they could solve everyone's problem without focusing on minor details. How had the fire started? What happened? What could they do about it?  
  
It felt like too much, like there was a huge weight on his shoulders and he would never be happy again. He had no positivity to give.  
  
"Are you crying, dear?" Freddie asked.  
  
At least he still had his quick wit. Forcing a smile, Roger held up the IV in his own arm. "It's all the smoke, I think. It's been happening on and off."

"Oh right, the fire," Freddie drawled, as if the thought just occurred to him. It was strange how his mannerisms - the way he tilted his head upward and stroked his jawline in thought - translated so perfectly. Even if he didn't look like Freddie, Roger could tell it was him. "The fire," Freddie said again. "Any idea how it started?"

"No," Brian said. "They're going to inspect the place. See what they can find. But I don't remember leaving anything on?" He bowed his head, resting his chin on his hand as he considered. It was such a recognizable Brian gesture that Roger almost forgot he looked like Freddie. Almost. "It was strange, though... They said they'd gotten another call just a few minutes earlier. Another house fire--they're actually incredibly rare, surprisingly. Someone could have started them both."

Freddie sat up, shaking his head and scoffing. "Ridiculous! Who would arson our house? We're... Okay, we're not the best-known band in the world, but we're Queen. Right? Who would...?"

"First, you can't use 'arson' as a verb," Brian chided. "Second, last time I checked, fires didn't cause... _this."_ He gestured around the room, meeting Roger's eyes for just a second. Brian shivered uncomfortably. "I'd be more concerned about how we're not in our right minds."

"Right, so how did _that_ happen?" Freddie asked, almost cheekily ambivalent about the question.

"I don't _know!"_ Brian snapped. "That _is_ the right question, though, isn't it?"

"You don't have to be so rude, dear," Freddie said. "He's trying to impersonate me, I think. Do I sound like that?"

"Sometimes," John admitted.

"Oh, yes, sometimes," Freddie sighed.

"Moreover, how'd we get out?" Brian went on, in his own little world as he spoke over Freddie. "I was trapped, I know it. There wasn't a way around the flames, and the smoke was so thick. I was trying to make my peace. I mean, I _knew_ I was going to die. I knew it. I was curled up, my arms over my head, and then... Then I was outside."

"I think I made it to the living room," John said, his voice quiet. "Although, it could have been the back bedroom. I can't really be sure. I got myself turned around."

"I was still in bed, staring at my clock, if I remember right," Roger said. "How's that hangover, John?"

"You bloody git. Is that why I have a headache?"

"Probably."

John groaned, rolling his eyes. "Headache or not, I feel like I'm dreaming." Leaning over the chair back, he stretched until his head was resting against the wall. His eyes were open as he stared up at the harsh fluorescent fixtures. "At least I'm prettier than all of you."

Brian and Freddie had a bit of a laugh. Roger faked a chuckle, unable to shake the silently creeping discontent.

"But it's not a dream," John went on, raising a hand to block the light from his eyes. "How does this happen? I know we've all asked it before, but really, how the _fuck_ does this _happen?"_

"We've only just begun to understand... To scratch the _surface_ of the meaning of the universe and why we're here," Brian said. "We think something like this is impossible because it's never happened before. But how many times in history have we been wrong? Just wrong about _everything?"_ He trailed off, shaking his head, his thoughts turning inward for a moment. "I mean, for all we know, it could have been as simple as one of use wishing we were somewhere else, and then..." He clapped his hands together. Roger jumped. "Bam!"

"Dear, this is a hospital," Freddie said, one hand on his chest. He draped his legs over his bed, bare toes just contacting the floor. "No clapping allowed. You'll give someone a heart attack. Incidentally, _did_ you wish you were somewhere else?"  

"Of course I did." Brian narrowed his eyes. "We all did, I'm sure. No one wants to be trapped in a fire... Oh, you don't think _I_ did this, do you? That would be stupid."

"As stupid as all of us switching bodies?" Freddie asked. "As impossible as that?" He wandered over to Brian, peering inside his ear, as if he'd see anything that would suggest any presence of strange, magical powers. He made a big show of it, too, turning Brian's head back and forth, as the poor, displaced guitarist rolled his eyes and tolerated it, like the good sport he always was.

"Well, no scrolls of ancient knowledge have fallen out," Freddie concluded, giving Brian's hair - his own hair - a pat. "So I think we're back to square one. No leads."

"It wasn't really a lead in the first place." John stopped staring up at the ceiling, blinking as he sat up straight again. "Like Brian said, we all had thoughts like that. I'm not proud of, you know, wishing it was someone else and not me. Or hoping I was dreaming."

"A higher power, maybe," Freddie said.

"A higher power wouldn'ta fucked it up so bad," Roger said. "You'd think if someone was important enough to be considered a god, they wouldn't engage in the wacky hijinks that is a bad science-fiction-movie body swap."

"Fairies. Elves. Gnomes." Freddie ticked off various fantasy creatures on his fingers. "Dragons."

"Oh, that's just crazy," Brian interrupted.

Freddie gave him a shove.

"Yeah, maybe it's not." Brian arched his eyebrows as if conceding the point. "And, none of us are burnt. We're mostly breathing all right. Even if some mystery rescuer pulled us out of the fire and left us on the lawn, you'd think there'd be a bit more injury. A burn, even? Maybe it _is_ fairies."

"Well, whatever the fairies were thinking when they saved us, they didn't give us a very clear picture of what to do _now."_ Freddie tiptoed across the tile, bare feet tapping softly in the near-silence of the hospital. The wheels of his IV stand squealed after him as he dragged that along. He fished around in various drawers and cubbies until he found a pad of scratch paper with the hospital letterhead on top. "And if none of us are injured, it means they've no reason to keep us. We'd best figure out what we're going to do before they kick us out of here. Brian, you were mostly cogent before they took us away, right? What did the house look like, dear?"

"It's..." He seemed unable to find the words, shaking his head instead. "It was dark. No lights. I saw beams sticking up out of the ground. At least part of it was collapsed. The part that was still standing was still on fire. I don't know that there's anything left to recover."

"Even so," Freddie said. "Maybe you and John should go take a look? Just a peek?" He scribbled something down on the paper.

"Like... IDs," John said, ever practical. "Our phones, if they aren't completely melted. Uh... Personal records. Birth certificates."

Roger had low expectations that they'd find anything intact. After all, certificates were paper, and could burn. So could flimsy plastic passports and licenses. He couldn't dredge up any _hope._ The strangest image of a bleak, grey horizon popped into his mind, with dust blowing across an endless plain of desolation and despair. He didn't know why the plain was endless, nor why it was a plain of _desolation and despair_ specifically, but there were also tumbleweeds, which seemed to suggest such things. Honestly, he was torn between laughing at how absurd the mental picture was, and falling into its hopeless depths and crying himself to sleep.

"I _suppose_ ID would be a good idea," Freddie said. "It's not as if people don't know who we are."

"Technical," John said. "Logistics. Trust me, your pretty face isn't getting us on an airplane."

"Fine, fine. Whatever you happen to find. And if you come across my mink fur coat..."

"We'll be sure to add it to the embers," John muttered. Brian chuckled.

"Brian... Insurance?" Freddie asked, already writing his name down. "You're smart enough to talk around their bullshit, I think. Yeah?"

"Sure," Brian said. "After we see the house, I'll make the call."

Made sense. Brian did have a good memory for nearly everything, and he'd be the best one to remember everything they'd lost in the fire. Roger could have done it, though. They weren't ignoring him, were they? Maybe they thought he couldn't do anything. It would serve him right, being push to the side.

 _Why would it serve him right?_ That was _insane._ The horrible thoughts wouldn't stop plaguing him, even though he told himself over that they didn't matter.

Again, Roger regarded Brian, wondering if all those times the guitarist looked wistful and distant, he was really just silently destroying himself from the inside out.

He shook his head, trying to clear it.

"I'll get us a good hotel," Freddie said. "Away from prying eyes, but _nice_. We don't want to be living like peasants while we're waiting for things to get sorted. Which brings us to..."

Everything was gone. Everything.

"Roger."

He looked up, surprised.

"Are you okay?"

"Mostly, I think."

"All right. Look, I don't know what we're going to do at this point, without the full picture, but maybe you can look into some re-building options. We don't want to live in a hotel for the rest of our lives. Goodness. Can you imagine _that_ reaching the tabloids."

"Yes, _that,_ " Brian said. "Definitely the worst thing that's happened. Definitely."

"I'm sorry, dear. I don't want people to think I can't afford a nice home." Freddie stuck his nose in the air, signaling an end to the discussion. "Roger?"

"Yeah, I can do that."

He'd never hungered for attention before, but this responsibility felt nice. Like they trusted him, even though he knew they all did. It was a lot of pressure, though. A lot of places he could fuck it up and make a mess of things.

He could do it.

"Well, then!" Freddie said. "I'll go find a nurse and check us all out of here. We've work to do!"


	2. Checked In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys settle into their hotel and begin to execute their plan. There's hiccups.

The clerk seemed to have forgotten what she was supposed to be doing. In fact, John found himself quite uncomfortable under her stare. It didn't help that he had none of Roger's charm to go with his looks; his mind was absolutely devoid of things to say.

"I think she recognizes us," Roger said gleefully, bouncing up and down to John's left.

Next to Roger, Brian leaned, almost boredly, on the counter, his chin nearly touching the marble surface. The clerk glanced at him, too, then to Freddie, who was combing through a rack of brochures.

"You're Roger Taylor," the clerk finally managed to Squeak out.   
  
It took John too long to remember who he was supposed to be. Thankfully, the actual Roger peered at her nametag and maintained the conversation, much to John's relief. "And you're ... Monica? We reserved a few rooms, just yesterday."

John noticed that Roger had slipped right into Brian's accent. It was almost flawless. Had they not all lived and worked together for the last couple years, John wouldn't have even sensed anything amiss.

"Right, I'm... I'm so sorry," Monica said. "I'll just need..."

John reached into his pocket, ignoring the smug look from Roger, as he retrieved the drummer's wallet. After extricating his ID and credit card and handing them over, both of them turned and leaned their backs on the counter. Next to them, Brian chuckled.   
  
"So, Roger got drunk Saturday night, fell asleep in his clothes, and made everything much less complicated," Roger narrated, as if telling a story.

"Accidentally," John grumbled. He almost neglected to tell them all that he'd found the wallet as they were getting dressed at the hospital, because he knew it would make Roger insufferable.

"John frowned, pouting," Roger went on, arching his eyebrows. "Still sore about the hangover, and unwilling to admit that Roger had enabled them to rent a car, to put a reservation down for a hotel..."

"Still," John interrupted, holding up the wallet. "Roger realized that John had complete, total control over everything, because he was the only one with identification, and Roger was not amused."

For a moment, Roger blanked. Then he said, still staring straight ahead, "Oh, Roger was amused. Roger was always amused."  
  
"You're an idiot," Brian said. "It's all serendipity anyway."

Monica returned to the counter with John's cards, and gave him their keys. They had a suite of sorts with four rooms, all connected by a common area, though each of them could be self-sufficient and retreat to their own space for privacy. Still, they were in close enough proximity to each other that they'd have a place to discuss the fire, the fallout from the damage, and, of course, rebuilding.  
  
And the little problem with them all being in the wrong bodies.

The hotel itself had a rustic charm, and was decorated with a Southwestern United States feel. Despite its clear theme, the hotel couldn't have been farther away from any tourist locations, which was why Freddie selected it. Even now, only a quarter of the rooms held guests, and some research provided the knowledge that the hotel was ever only half full on very rare occasions. It was certainly a failing business, but the people who worked there still took pride in its appearance. Freddie wouldn't have settled for anything dilapidated, after all.  
  
John experienced a moment of dizzy vertigo when he saw himself standing in front of a television in a small alcove. Of course it was Freddie; John wouldn't ever be able to get used to that, though. As he and the others headed over, Freddie looked up and smiled, wrinkles creasing around grey-green eyes.  
  
John's stomach flip-flopped.   
  
"You look pale, John, dear," Freddie said with just a note of understanding in his voice.

Of course, given the fact that he seemed to have Roger's confidence, John was quite able to hide his unease. Freddie sensed it, though. Freddie always sensed when things were amiss, even if he didn't always appear to care. John nodded, but added, "I'll be fine."

"Anyway," Freddie said, gesturing at the TV. "Have a look at this, would you?"

Roger shouldered past them, crouching in front of the TV. He made an odd noise as he shoved the curly hair out of his face - something between frustration and resentment - before he turned the volume up.

Where John internalized his feelings, he realized that Roger wasn't doing as well as he originally thought. His blasé, carefree attitude was crumbling as they watched. Still, no one said anything about it, for fear of making an already bad situation worse.  
  
"Quiet," Roger snapped, even though none of them had said anything. Freddie shrank back a little. John put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"As we reported last hour - and will continue to report as details become available..." the news anchor started, "fires broke out across the world last night in what appears to be the work of organized arson. Currently, authorities state that fatalities are low, but injury estimates are much higher. There's no word yet about how these fires were set..."

A camera panned across a couple different snippets of fires and destroyed homes. John didn't see theirs, but as the report went on, it became apparent that the fires numbered in the thousands.

"See, I heard this on the news in the hospital," Roger said, almost manically. He pushed Brian's hair back again. "But none of you would shut up long enough for me to..."  
  
"Thousands of fires," Brian mumbled. He hadn't exactly interrupted Roger, though Roger seemed to take offense even so. His brows lowered, and he crossed his arms, standing again.

"The fires must have something to do with..." Freddie gestured between himself and Brian, then himself and John, then to Roger. "You don't suppose there's others who are... like us? That haven't come forward because, well, it's absolutely absurd?"

Surely they would have heard something by now, right?

"I'll add that to my list of things to check," Brian said. He scratched his chin, mesmerized by the pictures on the television. "Not that I'll find anything, but still..."

Roger grabbed a card key from John's hand, curled his nose at the number, then sulked off toward the elevator bay.   
  
"That was odd," Freddie commented. Then, "Brian, see if there's news on any of the other stations."  
  


\---

  
It was a good hotel, Brian thought.

Not the best, though it fit their needs. The suite couldn't have been more perfect, especially if they were going to coordinate on things. With one external door and four completely separate rooms, it would keep them from tearing each other apart in frustration. Unfortunately, they wouldn't be able to rehearse here, what with the other guests about.   
  
And also, their instruments had probably been destroyed in the fire.

He spared a moment to mourn the loss of his guitar. He could build another, but it wouldn't be the same.

After spending hours on the phone with insurance, he collapsed onto one of the couches in their common area. He entertained the idea of turning on the TV, but the silence was much more welcome after hearing that shrill, snobby voice in his ear for the last hour. He did have to give kudos to Freddie for putting him on this particular task, though, because after a long string of 'we can't do that' from their insurance representative, Brian lost his temper _just enough_ to make himself formidable.

But not too much so as to make the agent on the other side of the line even more reluctant to help.

He and John would drive down tomorrow and meet an adjuster at the property. They meant to go anyway, really.

Brian was just leaning back on the couch, closing his eyes to take a quick nap, when he heard a crash from Roger's room, followed by a wail of despair.

He was on his feet before he remembered standing, staring with a mix of concern and curiosity at the '339' on the door. It was just slightly ajar, so Brian gently nudged it open the rest of the way and let himself in.

It was completely dark. One of the beds was unmade, though one of the pillows seemed to have been launched across the room. It leaned against the TV, which was precariously close to falling. Quietly, Brian balanced the stand back atop the dresser.

Narrowing his eyes as they adjusted, he spitted several of his dark curls strewn across the tacky hotel carpet. Then, he heard a very soft sob from the bathroom.

The light was on, though Brian hadn't noticed it before, since the door was closed. A shadow paced back and forth, interrupting the light that shone from under the door. He heard his own voice swear softly, then another slam, like someone was hitting a wall.

Brian leaned against the bathroom door, knocking softly. "Roger? Are you okay?"

"Freddie?" Roger replied, then he swore again, loudly, as he realized. "Brian! Shit. _Shit._ "

Roger sniffled, then a cacophony of noise followed, to the point where Brian wasn't exactly sure what he was hearing. Something hit the floor - plastic or metal, and heavy. Then the lock clicked on the bathroom door, and all sound ceased.  

Odd.

"I know you're in there, Rog," Brian said, as kindly as possible. "I've heard you already. Are you all right?"

No answer.   
  
Brian had suspicions about what was going on, given Freddie's panic attack at the hospital. He wondered if Roger was having issues, since Brian had always struggled with depression. It didn't seem fair that they'd have to live with each others' troubles on top of dealing with the disturbing knowledge that they were in the wrong bodies. "I'm not going anywhere 'til you answer," Brian tried again. "Are you all right?"

"I'm not sure, actually!" Roger said, his voice almost too chipper. A sniffle followed, then, "You see, I can't seem to, er... Sort myself out. You know how it goes."

Brian really did. As much as he was relieved that the crushing weight of his life didn't seem as awful lately, he didn't wish that feeling on anyone, especially not his best friend. Quietly, almost reluctantly, he asked, "Did you hurt yourself?"

"No, nothing like that." 

Brian was torn. He didn't want to make a big deal of it; it was embarrassing when the other guys caught him breaking down. Still, he had formulated - over years of practice - ways of dealing with these episodes to the point where they were much simpler to handle. He could lie to himself. He could bargain with himself. When things got really bad, he could fake a smile, and soon, his brain would catch up and he'd be all right for just a little longer. After a breakdown like this, none of the other guys would say anything. They'd carry on like normal, and Brian was okay with that.   
  
He wasn't sure if Roger could handle it.

Softly, from the other side of the door, Roger asked, "How do you deal with this?"

"Not being alone helps," Brian said. "And trying to tell yourself that it's going to be all right. I don't know, Rog. I've had years to figure out a routine. You've been dealing with it for what, three days? It's all right that you can't just wish it away. At least come out of the bathroom."

"Oh, you'll be mad. Look, I've cut off your hair."

"You _what_?"

The door opened a crack, and one hazel eye peeked out. "It was getting on my nerves. I thought it'd help. It's so _long_ , Brian!"

Hair could grow back. It wasn't the worst thing he could have done. "Did it help?"

"A little."

"Well, fine, then. Let's see it."

Roger opened the door the rest of the way, standing awkwardly, as if he would bolt at any moment. One foot was atop the other, his arms crossed in front of him. He stared blankly ahead. Each time he blinked, another tear would stream down his cheek and disappear into the stubble that Roger hadn't bothered to remove.

His hair - Brian's hair - was an absolute tragedy. It was hacked off, but unevenly, since Roger hadn't bothered to dampen it first. At least he hadn't sheered it down to the skin. Brian resisted curling his lip and managed to squeak out something like, "It looks fine," even though it really didn't.

"It's terrible," Roger said, turning toward the mirror. "I'm sorry. Once I realized I couldn't fix it, that's when I..." His breath hitched, and he raised his hand, looking at his knuckles. They were scraped and bruised where he'd hit the wall. Immediately, he ran his fingers through his hair as if to hide the damage, and a few more snips fell to the already messy floor. "This is... Embarrassing. I'm so sorry. I can't stop crying."

"You'll have days like that," Brian said as gently as he could, while mourning the loss of his mane. Leaning down, he picked up the scissors on the floor. "I think I can fix it, though, if you want me to try."

Some life came back into his eyes. "Yeah, I can't figure out how."

Stepping past him, Brian turned the shower on. "Here, just, wet it down first this time."  
  
"Oh..." Roger said, as if one of the great truths of the universe had dawned on him. "Oh, I should have-- That makes so much sense."

Brian smiled. "Well, you shouldn't have done it at all, but if the thought ever strikes you again, you know for next time. C'mon, then."

After the water warmed, Roger stuck his head under the stream, then toweled it dry. It fell in zig-zagged sheets just past his shoulders, since the curls were out of it now. Brian was no hairdresser, though he could figure out how to at least make it look presentable.

"I'm glad it was you who came in," Roger said, facing the mirror as Brian cut. "Freddie or John would have shouted."

"You guys don't shout at me, do you?" Brian asked.

"Well, no..." Roger trailed off, bowing his head. "I don't even know why I'm crying. No offense, Brian, but it all seems a bit ridiculous. I just... Didn't quite _get it_ until now."

"I still don't get it," Brian said.   
  
Roger watched in silence as Brian managed to at least even things out to the point that it looked okay. Not great, but passable, enough so that people wouldn't give him odd looks. When he'd done as much as he could, Brian asked, "What do you think?"

"It's so short," Roger muttered. "It's so weird seeing you with short hair."   
  
Brian grunted, but gave Roger a pat on the shoulder anyway. "Look, I have an idea. I'll be back in a bit, if you want to clean up. I need to grab something from the store. You gonna be okay for an hour or so?"

Roger nodded. The tears had dried up at some point, which was a good sign.   
  
"Good. Then I'll be right back."  
  


\---

  
"Freddie's gonna kill you," Roger said, for at least the fiftieth time. He couldn't remember exactly. The phrase just sprang to mind every time he glanced over at Brian.

"Maybe," Brian agreed, smiling around a mouthful of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Freddie's mustache was gone. "But at least you won't be alone, 'cuz we've both got haircuts now. And you feel better."

True. Roger couldn't feel hopeless anymore, with the bad science fiction movie playing on TV, and his tiny tub of chocolate ice cream. Still, he kept worrying about when he'd break again, instead of the fact that he felt okay now. Every time he dared to smile, a little, annoying voice in the back of his mind told him it wouldn't last.  
  
He did his best to shove the voice into a hole and cover it with a heavy rock.  
  
Brian had found an absolutely dreadful film - one of his favorites, he said - overflowing with pseudo-science and campiness. The plot seemed to revolve around a group of scientists traveling into the earth's core, though Roger couldn't hold onto the story for all the erroneous exposition.

They both loved natural disaster movies, only for the sake of picking them apart scene by scene, and this one was exceptionally inane. Since both of them had degrees related to science, they could always find distraction in relentlessly critiquing the writing in these types of films.

"There..." Brian said. He was leaning against the foot of the bed, though he turned and pointed to the screen, making sure Roger was watching from his comfortable nest against the headboard. "I _told_ you. He should be boiling. They're in the fucking mantle."

"In a geode," Roger added, gesturing at the screen with his spoon. "A diamond geode. Which hasn't melted under the pressure."

"It's elementary school science," Brian complained, his voice raising just a bit at the end, as Freddie's did sometimes. Even so, it was so easy to hear Brian within that voice. The criticism was soft, almost whiny, in a way. He shook his head, idly squishing the empty cup in his hand, as his upper teeth rested on his lower lip.  
  
Freddie never would have allowed that.

Magma started leaking through the geode on the screen, which had only now decided to fall apart, at this critical juncture. Typical.

"Uh, look, Rog..." Brian started. He turned, crossing his arms on the bed and resting his chin on them. "I've been thinking about how to say this, but I really am sorry you have to... Uh..." He pressed his lips together, narrowing his eyes. "Apparently I haven't thought about it enough, because I don't know how to put it."

"What, sorry that I have to carry your feels?" Roger said. He smirked and stretched, lying on his stomach and patting Brian on the shoulder. "Depression's no fun. I mean, I knew that, I just never... Understood." He trailed off, but Brian seemed to expect him to say more. "It's not your fault, anyhow."

"I'm not sure why you'd have it, and not me," Brian said. "I mean, it's my thoughts. They shouldn't have stayed behind."

"Oh, you space scientists," Roger teased. "Don't know anything about life here on good ol' planet earth."

"I know enough," Brian said.

"It's not just feelings," Roger said. "Like being sad, or happy. You're sick, Bri." He paused, then said, "I'm sick."

"It's not..."

"It is, though," Roger said. "It's a misappropriation of chemicals and hormones. Nothing's working right. Nothing's balancing. You've learned to deal with it, but it was over time, and not all at once. That's why you didn't take it with you, though. Because it's in your physical brain." He tapped his head. "Which I assume I have. It's probably also why Freddie had a panic attack, since John's prone. Honestly I'm kinda worried about if John ever loses his temper. I have a bad one."

Brian stared at the TV, his expression blank. Then he said again, "I'm sorry."

"How'm I supposed to accept an apology for something that's not your fault?" Roger asked. "Look, we'll figure this all out, then..."

Roger would pass those awful feelings back to his best friend. Gentle, observant Brian, who didn't deserve to feel like the world was out to get him.

"Then I'll be me again," Brian suggested, smiling over his shoulder.

Roger laughed humorlessly. "I know Freddie's a loose cannon, but that's just his personality. You lucked out, Brian. You're the most stable of the whole damaged lot. Enjoy it while you can."


	3. Ruined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Brian visit the "house." At least, it's where the house was supposed to have been...

To Brian, it looked like one of those pan-shots of destruction from an old war movie.

The property itself was in ruins. The grass had burnt all the way to the roots before the fire department arrived. Then their efforts to extinguish the fire left a muddy mire all the way around the foundation, comprised of ash and dirt and mold from the crawl space. Random trinkets and sundries bobbed around in the still pond - a drumstick here, a waterlogged roll of toilet paper there. Brian found a sheet of what might have, at one time, been the start of some lyrics, though it was partially scorched, and the ink had washed off in the water, besides.

A few of the trees survived, though a majority near the house - along with all their affectionately neglected shrubs - had gone up in flames. A bit farther away, the skeletal remains of Brian's favorite hawthorn tree stood blackened and crumbling against the blue sky.

Part of the house still towered above him, though only enough remained to make the ruins creepy and disturbing. A now-crumbling set of cement steps led to nothing. Two metal beams jutted from the earth to the property's east side. Somehow, the blaze had burned hot enough to destroy the integrity of even the strongest of materials; in places, the foundation blanketed the ground in a scattering of collapsed chunks, partially submerged in muck. Panes of glass now lay partially melted, draped over the remains of the frame like a demented surrealist painting.

No one should have made it out.

"Look, John!" Brian exclaimed, as a grey tabby rubbed against his leg. Not only had the four human residents escaped the fire, but it seemed one of Freddie's cats had, as well. Felicia must have heard the familiar voices and come running, desperate for a little comfort. He picked her up, cradling the scared feline in his arms, as he looked for signs of the others. He tried to imitate Freddie's timbre and accent as he called for them, but they never appeared. Still, the plethora of pawprints in the mud around the wreckage gave him hope that they were still alive.

Now, where had John gotten to?  
  
As if to answer, he whipped past them, pacing the yellow caution tape as he had been all morning, completely ignoring the rescued cat. The mud sucked at his ruined shoes, producing a disgusting _squish_ with every step, as he wore a rut around the whole house. Perhaps he wanted to make a moat.

"John, stop for a minute, would you?" Brian said.

He couldn't help analyzing John's frantic indecision, taking his previous conversation with Roger into account. On one hand, John was a careful soul, and no amount of being in the wrong body could take that quality away from him. After all, his very existence was the sum of thirty years of habit and personality, which couldn't be undone by even the most extraordinary of magic tricks.  
  
On the other hand, John might no longer be as hindered by anxiety.

"We don't have to go in," Brian finally said as John ran his fingers along the tape. "If we don't come home with anything, Freddie'll understand."

Not twenty minutes ago, the insurance adjuster wrote it off as a total loss.  
  
As if he hadn't heard, John fiddled with the tape, straightening it out until he could read 'POLICE LINE -- DO NOT CROSS' for the hundredth time. Beyond that, an orange sticker affixed to the remains of a once-beautiful elm read 'UNSAFE STRUCTURE' with a bit of legalese underneath in tiny letters. Usually such a label would be stuck to a door or a window, and probably would have been if there were any left.  
  
Without word or warning, John ducked under the tape.

Honestly, Brian hadn't expected him to do that.

"John, no! _John, dammit!"_ Brian paced in the muck on the safe side of the tape, swore again as John delved further into the darkness, and then retreated to the rental car to deposit Felicia inside. "Stay," he said, hoping she wouldn't pee on any of the seats and void their security deposit. "I'll be back. I hope."  
  
By the time Brian reached the house, he could no longer see John anywhere. Only second-guessing his decision to follow for a second or two, he picked his way over the crumbling foundation and through a hole, which used to be a wall. Melted siding still clung to the battered, cracked frame. The vinyl had cooled long ago, leaving long tendrils of artificial stalactites, which stretched toward the ashy ground.

He was standing in what used to be the crawl space. Steel pipes and lead lines abruptly terminated in sharp relief against the darkness, grinning like the teeth of some defeated monster. Rivers of copper tubing glimmered in the dappled light of the setting sun. Once, they'd carried gas or water through the property. Now, they were only useless slag.

At this proximity, it all looked like the aftermath of a bloody skirmish.

"John?" Brian tried. He stepped over crumbling floor joists and charred cinderblocks as he tried to follow. Here and there, he saw a bit of metal or glass that had somehow survived the fire. Something glimmered under his feet; when he crouched to see what it was, he sifted through the dust until he revealed a twisted, brittle guitar string, unattached to any instrument. Brian wondered if it was his.

He took another moment to mourn the loss of his guitar. Even if their entire lives lay here in the ash, that guitar was special. Irreplaceable. Its successor would never be the same.

How Freddie thought they'd find anything recoverable was beyond Brian. He dropped the string.

As he ventured further, he found that the rest of the house wasn't in quite the same dire condition. Of course it still looked bad, but he found a place where the floor hadn't burnt away. Pursing his lips, he realized that John must have come this way, because it was the only path in the whole building still worth exploring. 

Even though Brian felt sheer doubts about the safety of this endeavor, he attempted to climb onto the floor, anyway. The boards gave way, supported by nothing, and dumped him into the muddy soot. He swore liberally and creatively, stomped to his feet, and attempted to dust off his pants the best he could. Lifting his arm, Brian glared at his elbow where something had scratched a shallow wound. Freddie would kill him for damaging that beautiful skin, he was sure.

Exploring along the edge of the jagged floorboards, Brian finally found a place where they hadn't come completely loose. Using a couple bricks as a step, he leveraged himself up, using a beam as support. Soon, he found himself standing in the rear quarter of what might have been their living room. Subconsciously, he cringed, hunching his shoulders as he tried to regain his bearings. This burnt-out shell creeped him out more than the remains of the crawl space, if only because it looked infinitely more familiar.

Ashy footprints led northwest, toward their bedrooms.

The floor creaked underfoot, bowing under Brian's weight. He expected to fall through at any moment, so he carefully avoided any areas that looked as if they could collapse. The surface was pockmarked with bubbles of enamel, which had lifted from the laminate in the heat and started to boil away. These thin orbs of plastic crunched underfoot as he entered the hall.

The vibrations of his feet cause paint to flake off the walls. Brian thought it must have been paint at one point, anyway. It no longer bore the familiar tan color that he was used to, having instead turned to a dark charcoal grey. The drywall beneath it was warped and blistered, and completely burnt away in some places, revealing the frame underneath.

He realized he could see sky above him, and the floor underfoot turned to shingles. Here, the roof had collapsed, which spoke volumes about the integrity of the rest of the house. "John? We really shouldn't be in here."

For several seconds, his feet refused to move. Brian refused to go backward, but his mind shouted at him that continuing onward was suicidal. "Jo-ohn," he tried in a sing-song voice. "C'mon out, would you? We need to leave."

It dawned on him that he could see their bathroom past a fallen beam, which rested diagonally between the walls. Every surface was black, from the tile, to the toilet, to the sink - which now stood freely on its drainpipe, since the vanity had burnt away. Scraps of cloth hung from the metal shower rod, gently wafting in the breeze from the collapsed wall opposite the door.

"Brian, are you out there?" John asked, his voice muffled.

Oh, thank god, Brian thought. "We need to get out of here. Now."

"No, not just yet. C'mere. Look what I found."

Brian finally forced his feet to move, though he tread carefully over the crackling shingles. He followed the voice to what used to be John's bedroom, where he was greeted by the skeletons of ruined furniture. The dressers were mostly gone, though the bedframe and mattress springs remained, creating what seemed to be a scene from one of Roger's horror-themed video games. Like the hall, the roof had fallen in here, as well, letting the sunlight in unhindered.

"Check this out," John said.

He sat under the closet doorframe, patting a large, grey cube. Curiously, that corner of the house - and that corner alone - appeared untouched by the fire. In was as if the heat and flames just passed it by; Brian could even see some clothes still hanging in the closet, though they were soaked from the firehoses and looked much worse for wear.   
  
Brian could even still make out the sky blue paint on the wall, though that, at least, was marred with ash. Still, such a pristine retreat seemed wildly out of place in the ruins of the rest of the house. It made no sense...

"Help me turn this over," John said, giving the cube another pat. His hair was no longer blond. In fact, it was so blackened that it looked like he'd gone and rubbed it through the soot on the floor. When he looked up and smiled, two shining blue eyes peered out from the mask of ash and grime. "It's my safe."

Brian knelt next to it, lifting from the bottom as John pushed from the top. "You don't think this is weird?" he asked.

"What's weird?" John replied. The safe finally overbalanced, onto its other side with a crash that should have caused it to fall right through the floor. But here, the floor was strangely stable.

"The..." Brian indicated the unburnt circle around the safe. "This. This spot. Specifically."

"We got lucky," John said, making an unspecific gleeful sound as he turned the dial. "I thought it'd be too hot to save the stuff inside, but the fire didn't even reach the closet. So I bet it's okay."

Lucky. Brian wanted to tell John that this wasn't luck - it was unnatural. Still, as much as he wanted to try to explain it, 'luck' seemed like the most logical way to put it. Perhaps the water hit the fire here first, causing this sector to suffer minimal damage. It was an odd pattern for fire to burn; even so, the evidence of such an event was right here before Brian's eyes. "Lucky," he repeated, as the safe swung open. "What do you have a safe for, anyway?"

"Because you guys would have lost everything if I didn't." Like the rest of the little unburnt island, the inside of the safe was still pristine, with no hint that a fire had recently destroyed everything around it. "I swiped these while you guys weren't looking. See?" John pulled out a folder and handed it up to Brian, who brushed the sooty fingerprints off.

When he opened it, he found four birth certificates.

"And our passports," John went on, pulling one of them out and flipping through it. "And the deed to the house. Probably don't need that anymore, or the title for my car, since that's toast. Or the title for your car..."

"How the fuck did you get that?"

"It's not like you kept it hidden," John said. "It was in your glovebox."

What a sneaky little shit.

"At least we can use them for the insurance," John went on, continuing to paw through the things inside. "Some photos... Wish I could have gotten them all in here. A flash drive... No idea what's on this. Probably something important. Hm..."

He was so practical. And his thievery would enable them to re-acquire their own personal paperwork so much easier than if he hadn't stolen all their personal documents.

"Whenever we'd leave the country," John said, "I'd go sneak your passports back where you kept them. None of you ever knew."

Brian always admired John. Out of all of them, he was the most rational. With that in mind, he felt something. A warmth, almost a burning sensation, spreading from his stomach and up into his cheeks. It also traveled downward, which was when Brian realized this feeling was much more than admiration. His heart leapt in surprise and embarrassment as he stumbled backward. His cheeks were burning.

And when John looked at him, the feeling intensified.

"We can't take the safe with us, I guess. It's too heavy. Are you okay?"

Brian's eyes were wide, staring. His mind returned to Roger telling him that he was the luckiest of all of them, since Freddie was fairly stable. There were some things they hadn't considered, though.

John tilted his head, looking down at Brian's hands, which he'd somehow - he couldn't remember when - crossed in front of his legs.

John blinked. "Oh."

"Y--yeah," Brian said, voice wavering. "I'm so sorry."

John flushed bright red, turning away to gather a few more things from the safe. "Uh... Don't worry about it," he muttered, offering a genuine smile despite Brian's predicament. "Everyone knows Freddie's always had a crush on Roger."

"I didn't think..." Brian took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "Uh, maybe we should go."

"Yeah, probably." John tried to play it as cool as possible, glaring at the miasma hanging in the air around them. "This can't be good to breathe."

He gave Brian a pat on the shoulder, which caused Brian's heart to leap again. Realizing he suddenly had feelings for one of his bandmates where there hadn't been any feelings before was terribly awkward, but it could have been far worse. It just felt strange, since it clashed with what he was used to - what he'd found attractive his whole life.

After taking a second to compose himself, he followed after John, hoping the hour-long car ride back to the hotel wouldn't be too agonizing for either of them.


	4. Tantrums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger has a temper... As John unfortunately discovers.

Freddie's day couldn't possibly have been worse.

With a clothing allowance from John, he and Roger took a taxi - a _taxi,_ of all the indignities! - to the local mall. Then, he had to deal with the fact that no one in this small corner of the UK recognized them.

Freddie needed love. He needed someone to tell him how sorry they were about the fire, or to keep his chin up, because it would all be okay. Or that it was hard luck, but at least he still had his glorious voice! He thought he saw someone turn their head in recognition at one point, but she'd just been checking out a sale poster.

_Preposterous._

Then, Roger had to go and be sensible. Only the necessities, he said! Some pants and shirts. Socks, ties, and shoes. That way, they wouldn't have to wear the same clothing every day, and things would feel more comfortable. It was supposed to get them by until insurance came to their rescue.

Could Freddie really be faulted for suggesting they could use the money to buy new stage outfits? Roger refused to even entertain the idea.   
  
Oh, he knew his plan contained a purely selfish element, but only a tiny one. What Freddie really desired was to give everyone a little pick-me-up, and he did so love shopping for pretty things. _Expensive_ things, true, but they were beautiful, and made him so happy. He tried to tell Roger that he'd found a tailor just down the street from the mall, who could _really_ do amazing things on a budget...

Yet here they were, returning to their hotel, with hardly anything elegant in their possession. Freddie had a secret, though. _Oh yes._ A wonderful secret.

"What are you all giddy over?" Roger asked as they carried the boxes up to their rooms. Freddie couldn't even allow himself to be annoyed that there wasn't a bus boy available to carry their purchases for them. 

"And spoil the surprise?" Freddie turned up his nose. He couldn't help feeling that Roger's judgmental hazel eyes knew what he'd done, though Brian always had that air about him. He supposed Roger just couldn't help it, wearing that face. "I should make you wait until the others get back to show you. Anyway, it's good that this hotel has an elevator. Imagine carrying all these boxes up the stairs!"

"You're changing the subject," Roger said, as he pushed button for the fourth floor. Still, the corner of his mouth twitched upward, just for a second. "What'd you do, Fred? C'mon, don't make me wait."

That placated him a bit, and he relented. "Patience, darling. I promise I'll show you as soon as we get to our suite. If you promise not to yell."

Roger arched his eyebrows. "I ain't promisin' nothin'."

Freddie sighed. "Oh, fair enough."

Roger shifted his stack of boxes to one arm, balancing them expertly as he fished around in his pocket. With a quiet "ah!" he pulled out his card key. The hacked-off bits of Brian's curly hair fell into his eye as he did so. "You know, taking you shopping is worse than taking a toddler into a candy store."

"I know!" Freddie squealed, not at all insulted.

Roger rolled his eyes, unlocked the door, and shoved it open with one toe. Setting the boxes down on the coffee table in the center of the room, he muttered, "This all ought to all fit, all things considered. It would have gone better if you remembered your own size."

"Oh, you know I can't be bothered," Freddie replied, stacking his boxes next to Roger's. "I'm whatever size I need to be, dear. Brian will be happy, don't worry."

"So very helpful."

"Mm-hm. Now, where is it...?" Freddie searched through the boxes and bags for his presents, which seemed to have utterly disappeared among the shirts and socks. Where could they have gone? Surely they hadn't left them at the store, or worse, _in the taxi._ Then, he remembered. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved the prize, holding up a plain white bag for Roger to see.

"I can't contain my excitement," Roger said flatly.

"Oh, shut up. You know they're _in_ the bag." Freddie glared at him, reached into the neatly-packaged parcel, and pulled out four lengths of cloth, each in a different pattern or color. He hated knowing that his discovery came from a place as mundane as a shopping mall, but their audiences wouldn't have to know that. "See? Bandanas. One for each of us."  
  
Roger's eyes narrowed. Freddie could tell he was weighing whether or not it was worth it to go back to the mall to return them. "Well," he finally said. "I don't suppose it cost a fortune."

He had to be convinced! Fine. Freddie had a plan.

"Look, here's... Well, here, let me give you Brian's. It goes with his eyes." He held out a plain green bandana. Brian wouldn't appreciate gaudy patterns or flashing colors, so his was fairly simple. It did have lines of sequins sewn into it, of course. Not as much as Roger's or Freddie's, but more than John's.   
  
Roger tied it around his neck and checked his reflection in the mirror. A moment later, the smile appeared.   
  
"See?" Freddie said. "It's nice, and you love it."

"I'm obligated to remind you that we weren't supposed to buy anything we didn't need." Roger glanced backward for a moment, arching an eyebrow. "Still... Yeah. It's good. It's nice." He tilted his chin, looking at the others as curiosity won him over. "Which one's mine?"

"This one, of course," Freddie scoffed, holding up the white one with the blue paisley print.

"Of course," Roger replied. His tone did sound a little sarcastic. Freddie chose to ignore it.

"And this one's John's." Freddie set a softly tie-dyed yellow and brown bandana on the table. It had just a glimmer of sparkle on the edge. He knew John would love it.

The last one he tied around his own neck. It was a brilliant red, with a fiery pattern along the entire length. Freddie loved the irony, considering their home had gone up in flames. How could he hate fire, though? The flashiest element to ever grace the earth looked great on him, and it had a smattering of red rhinestones set into the fire. He could have the fake stones replaced with actual rubies later, once they got back on their feet. It stood to become one of his favorite accessories.

"Er, Freddie," Roger said. "Maybe you should..."

Freddie felt the jolt of wrongness when he looked in the mirror; only then did he remember that he didn't look like himself. It felt as if his heart skipped, or stopped, or leapt into his throat, then down into his stomach. His eyes widened as he stared at John's face, experiencing a moment of painful nausea as his expectations clashed with his reality.  
  
How could he forget?   
  
How the _hell_ could he forget?

"Here," Roger said gently, picking the brown and yellow bandana up off the table. "Try this one." He gave Freddie's shoulder a friendly pat. "You can see how it looks on John... It's pretty perfect for him, you know. You're always good at... Er... You're not listening to me, are you?"

Freddie was not.

He felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He hated people seeing him at his weakest, or most vulnerable. As his face became as red as his bandana, he ripped the sparkling cloth off, slammed it to the floor, and stomped on it.  
  
Freddie swore. At least, he meant to swear. The word that escaped his mouth sounded nothing like any word he'd ever heard. It had the vague intonation of rage and disappointment, with a hint of fear and despair. He couldn't help it. Maybe if he'd had the moment in private, he wouldn't feel so utterly foolish. But here he was, about to cry, and he could see Roger's pitying smile in the mirror out of the corner of his eye.

"It's okay, buddy," Roger said. "We'll fix it."  
  
Freddie glared. John's _stupid brain_ was robbing him of his words again, and it gave Roger enough time to drone on!  
  
"No, I mean it!" Roger held up his hands. "You know, with all those fires... Remember the news? Something happened, right? And... Someone will figure it out, and we'll... we'll fix things. You just have to hold on 'til then."

"No! I hate it. _I hate it!"_ Freddie forced his voice, stomping on the bandana again. A couple bits of sequins flaked off onto the tacky carpet. "I’m supposed to be pretty! That was supposed to work _for me._ But look at me, Roger! Look at me!"

Roger looked confused, if not sympathetic. He even smiled a bit. "I am, Freddie. You're just John right now, is all."

"That's exactly the problem! I'm _ugly,_ Roger!"

Roger's eyes widened. He fumbled with words for a moment, and ended up saying nothing at all. 

"Look at me," Freddie said again. He curled his nose, holding up his arms. "I'm all... gangly and... And..." He turned toward the mirror, trying to think of the most vitriolic ways to describe himself. It'd make him feel better, possibly. At first, he couldn't think of a single thing. He liked John, after all, and it felt like a violation of trust to rip into the poor guy's appearance.

"Freddie, you need to stop," Roger said.

Freddie probably should have paid more attention to the desperation in his voice.

"No! Look at this _hideous_ nose," he went on, finally finding the right words. "It takes up my whole face! And my lips are so thin! And... And grey hair! He's younger than all of us, and he's grey already. It's ridiculous." He ran his fingers through the grey at John's temples. "Is he thirty, or sixty?"

"For the love of God, _please stop,"_ Roger said again, his voice almost a whispered hiss.

"Oh, come off it," Freddie snapped, narrowing his eyes. He tried to justify something about his appearance as he stared at himself. Under normal circumstances, he could find so much about John that he loved - his smile, his fluffy hair, his beautiful green eyes... At the moment, though, none of that was _him._ It was all wrong. He was terrified, and his terror was making him particularly unkind.

The worst thing was that he realized it, but he couldn't stop. "I look dopey, darling. You know it's true."

"Dopey, is it?"   
  
That wasn't Roger. It was Roger's voice, though.

"Is that how you feel, Fred?" John asked. His voice was sharp, just on the verge of anger.

He stood just inside the doorway, face as red as Freddie's. Brian hunkered just behind him, hiding diplomatically behind the doorframe.

Freddie had just enough time to register John's narrowed blue eyes, the almost aggressive hunch of his shoulders, and the snarl that displayed his teeth before the normally gentle bassist exploded with rage.  
  
"What do you expect me to do, Mercury? Cut off my nose and find one more to your liking? I'll do it _right now!"_

Which would probably hurt, and John looked like he might just do it. Freddie covered his nose before he could stop himself. John curled his lip. "You think this is a _joke?_ "  
  
Freddie sort of tuned out what John was saying after "Maybe we can shove the old nose up your arse."

All he could register was the volume and sheer outrage. And while Freddie could normally hold his own in a shouting match, this clear antithesis of all he knew John to be caused him to shut down completely, unable to respond. He couldn't even try, perhaps because of the guilt over hurting someone so very dear to him.

His thoughts were racing. Tremors shook him every few seconds, betraying his fear. He heard every word John said, though he couldn't process them adequately enough at the moment to make sense of him. Still, he caught snippets of 'idiot' and 'fucking moron' and other words John would never say under normal circumstances. Words that cut Freddie deeper than he ever knew he could feel.

John's face was just a quarter of a meter away from his. Roger tried to push them apart, but Freddie had nowhere to go. His back was against the wall.

Abruptly, John's face relaxed, going almost completely blank. The malice in his pale eyes faded away and he blinked, as if confused. "...Freddie?" he asked.   
  
Roger took the opportunity to shove John away.

Freddie couldn't calm his thoughts long enough to form any coherent response. The words were there, flittering through his consciousness and then out of his reach. Each time he tried to speak, his words were replaced by the next thought, and the next. In the end, all he could manage was to shake his head.

"Freddie," John said again. "What happened? Rog? What happened? Brian?" Frantic, he tangled his fingers into his hair, meeting Freddie's eyes. "Why is Freddie crying? _What did I say?"_

Was he crying? Freddie reached up to rub at his cheek.

Oh.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," John said, already fleeing the room. Roger glanced at Freddie, as if unable to decide what to do, then he followed after John.

Freddie's heart was hammering, and he felt sick. At some point during the altercation, he'd slid to the floor. One of his heels was still dug into the carpet, like he'd tried to push himself through the wall to escape. If he could hide, maybe he could parse everything and calm himself down. But then Brian was there, inexplicably standing over him, wearing his face.

 _Give it back,_ Freddie thought.

Words failed him, though. He knew he moved his mouth, but nothing came out.

"It's all right," Brian said, kneeling next to him. "Look who I found at the house."

Freddie looked at the bundle in Brian's arms.

"Felicia," Freddie managed. He reached for the grey tabby, and Brian gladly handed her over.

Freddie hadn't realized how relieved he'd be to see one of his precious cats. He buried his face in her fur; even though she smelled like smoke and ash, she still brought him comfort, which he sorely needed. She purred, tolerating the handling like a champ, as Freddie hugged her close.

And he cried as Brian sat next to him, leaning against his shoulder.  
  


\---

  
"John! Wait!"

As John fled at escape velocity, Roger hurried to catch up. If his friend found a place to hide, no one would be able to find him until he meant to be found. And in that time, he'd stew long enough to cook up an enormous helping of resentment - partially for Freddie, but mostly for himself. Even if he didn't have to deal with his own anxiety at the moment, nothing could change a well-established habit. Nothing could make John stop being John.

The displaced bassist stopped at the elevator for just enough time to hit the button. When he noticed Roger's proximity, he grimaced and fled, ducking through the stairwell door, instead.

"Noooo," Roger whined. He lost a second of time as he debated whether or not he should take the elevator and try to cut John off on the first floor. But what if he detoured to the second floor? Or the third? No, Roger had to keep eyes on him at all times, or he'd lose him. Slamming open the door and following, he called, "John, hey! Come on, now! Let's talk!"

"Go away!" John snapped.

If he reached the hotel's front door, he'd bolt. Honestly, Roger had no idea how far John could get in his body. He wasn't normally a runner, but he could make it a fair distance. Far enough to disappear, at any rate.

So, of course, Roger did something stupid, without giving the consequences of his actions a moment's thought. With John on the flight of stairs below his, Roger vaulted over the railing to intercept him. Only on the way down did he realize that he had no idea how to vault over a railing and land safely... and to make matters worse, his foot was on a collision course for the edge of a step. As he flailed in midair, he overbalanced, unintentionally angling himself backward. Not only would he break his ankle upon impact, but then he'd fall down the rest of the stairs and break every other bone in his body.

By some miracle, he stuck the landing.

John's arm covered his eyes, as if to hide his delicate sensibilities from the ensuing chaos. He only peered out after he heard the thump of Roger's shoes, then he reflexively grabbed onto Roger's shoulders to keep him from toppling. Oddly, there seemed to be absolutely no danger of that happening at this point.  
  
"How are you still standing?" John asked.   
  
Roger shook his head. "Lucky, I think?"

"Very."

Roger glanced behind him, noting how far he would have rolled had he not made his Olympic-caliber dismount. "Uh, anyway, now that I've stopped you, maybe we should talk?"

John glared and grunted, trying to step around Roger, who stubbornly put both arms out and grabbed the railings. "Nuh-uh. No more running."

It felt weird, staring himself down, as if he was looking in a mirror. Somehow, John's withering glower seemed even more intense coming from Roger's own blue eyes.   
  
It took longer than expected, but ultimately, John did look away. He always had trouble keeping eye contact.

"That was rough, huh?" Roger asked. "What Freddie said."

John's lip twitched in what might have been a sneer or a snarl, but regardless, he backed up a few steps and sat on the landing, crossing his arms. "Of course it was rough," he said. "Not to sound childish, but when you think someone likes you, then they say... that..."

"I don't know why he went there," Roger admitted, sitting next to his friend. "I think he likes you just fine, you know? But this is getting to him, and he saw himself in the mirror, and it was you he saw, and he just lost it. But it's getting to us all!" Roger ran his fingers through his hair, remembering when he'd hacked off Brian's mane. Still... "Always gotta make a scene, he does. It's always the god-damned Freddie show."

John said nothing in reply. When Roger looked at him, he was staring straight ahead, without emotion. "He didn't deserve what I did to him, though. I remember yelling, Rog. I don't remember what I said, but it was... It was a lot. And loud. And right in his face."

It really didn't take Roger long to come to a conclusion about what happened. After all, it did seem completely out of character for the usually soft-spoken bassist to snap so completely, and at such a high decibel, to boot. Sure, John had lost his temper before - plenty of times - but he was a man of few words, who knew how to cut a person down with a single sentence. He didn't have to employ an enraged tirade of expletives and insults to make a point.

Like Roger did.  
  
"You've got my temper," Roger said.

John managed to narrow his eyes and arch his eyebrows at the same time. Roger couldn't help a smile as he continued. "Yeah, you know... Not to put too fine a point on it, but I've been depressed. And it sucks, but I gotta deal with it 'cuz I'm Brian right now. And let me tell you, I'm never just gonna tell him to cheer up again, because... Because you can't." He looked down at his hands, sighing. "It kills me to think he's gotta live with that all the time. And then, you pointed out right at the beginning that Freddie has your thing? Remember, when he couldn't talk?"

John nodded.

"It's not just that we switched bodies, John. We got each others' hangups as well. And when I was a long younger, I'd just..." Roger mimed snapping a stick in half. "I'd break. Just like that. And I wouldn't remember what I said, or what I did--"  
  
"Yeah!" John exclaimed, almost excited. Then his face fell. "Yeah, I don't actually remember what... I didn't hit him, did I?"

"No! No, nothing like that. I thought... maybe you were coming close. You said some pretty nasty stuff, though. I mean, you pair my temper with your wit, and you get a really horrible combination."

John slouched, almost folding into himself. "I saw red. I know that's a cliché, but I did. And then the next thing I remember, I'm staring at this... look... on Freddie's face. He was so hurt, Rog. He's having a panic attack right now, and I did that to him. It's my fault."  
  
Roger found himself almost parroting the exact same things Brian told him before. "I've had years to learn how to deal with my temper, John. It snuck up on you. I mean, all you could do was let it out, I think."

John rested his head in his hands. "I should have had more sense than that. I should have been able to control it. I mean, you do! You're one of the most laid-back people I know!"

  
"And I _work at it,"_ Roger said. "Seriously, there's times when I want to kill you guys. And I gotta remember that getting black-out pissed-off and tearing everything apart won't help. It's hard, but I've got the experience, yeah? Anyway, that's how my brain's wired. So you gotta deal with it." He shrugged and asked, "Did you feel this kinda dizzy little shock behind your eyes before you lost it?"

"Yeah." 

"That's when I know," Roger said. "Hopefully this doesn't last long enough for us to get to that point again, but if it happens, you gotta get out of the situation. Just leave."

John nodded, though not in a way that suggested he was taking Roger's advice to heart. He seemed so devastated. "My nerves are so frayed," he said, voice strained. As he continued, he broke several times, only just managing to hold it together. "That's the only way I can put it. After seeing the house, and-- and... It's all gone, Rog."

Roger felt his throat tighten as tears stung his eyes. He'd never been particularly emotional, but apparently Brian's brain felt like it was time to cry. He valiantly tried to resist.

He failed.

"I couldn't take it, when Freddie said what he did. And I heard it all." He rubbed at his nose, almost self-consciously. "Maybe I would have been able to shrug it off if I hadn't just seen..." Turning to Roger, he met his eyes with serious intensity. "Don't go. If you can't handle Brian's mind, don't go. Please."

"I won't. Promise." Roger had no desire to go, anyway. He was more concerned with figuring out how to patch things up between Freddie and John before things festered for too long. John could hold marathon grudges, and hated letting things go. "Uh, hey, with as much of a jerk as Freddie was, he was right about one thing."

John's brows knitted, worry crossing his features.

"You, uh... You do look old. Old _er,_ " Roger said tentatively. "Just throwing that out there."

Thankfully, John smiled, even chuckling a bit under his breath.

Roger ran with it. "The grey hair, John! And you're so young. Younger than all of us. And the wrinkles. On your forehead! And when you smile..."

John was glaring at him now, mostly in good humor. Probably.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry."

"I worry a lot," John admitted.   
  
"I've noticed."

At least his blank expression had become more wistful, if Roger could put a description to it. Perhaps the crisis had passed, and he no longer had to worry about John running off.

"Can you... Tell me what I said?" John asked.

Bad idea. Of course, Roger heard the whole thing, the content of which would _kill John_ if he knew all of it. "Look, when you say things in anger, you don't necessarily mean them... They're just..."

Thankfully, the door on the landing above theirs opened, and they both looked up. The distraction rescued Roger from what would have been an extremely heartbreaking conversation.

Brian skipped down a few steps before noticing they were there. "Did Freddie come this way?" he asked.

Roger shook his head.

"Shit," Brian muttered. "I left for one minute, and when I came back, Felicia was there, but Freddie wasn't. I've got no idea where he's gone."


	5. Walkabout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie disappears. Just for a while, though.

Freddie would come back eventually, John told the others, so they shouldn't worry.

John was worried.

As Brian slept uncomfortably on the couch, attempting to keep vigil, John watched the news. He couldn't sleep, after all, and after he coerced Roger into telling him what he'd shouted at Freddie, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to sleep again. Even if Brian and Roger seemed to have forgiven him for the outburst, it wasn't them who'd suffered the onslaught.

And Freddie was out there somewhere, alone.

Listening to the news wasn't helping, either. Not only were they reporting on the thousands of fires across the world, but apparently other weird things were happening now. Inexplicable things, that were either physics-defying or logic-defying or both, like purple-leafed trees springing up in the middle of Central Park, New York. Or the pigeon with four legs someone recorded in Ireland.

A pigeon-griffon should have piqued his interest, but John's mind kept wandering back to the question of where Freddie had gone. And every time he wondered, he felt as if he knew the answer with crystal clarity, despite earnestly believing he should have no idea. It was like a hunch... A really specific, extremely nagging hunch, which he had to explore. If he didn't, it would drive him crazy.

Leaving the TV on, he quietly slipped away to his room, so as not to disturb Brian. Not for the first time, John stood in front of his mirror, staring blankly at the reflection of Roger therein. He couldn't help thinking that he looked older somehow, that the dark shadows under his eyes were just a little darker now, or that the tiny creases around his eyes were just a little more apparent. But no matter how much the others had him thinking about his age, John knew he was just tired and worried, and his eyes were a little bloodshot from his temper tantrum earlier, and he definitely needed a nap.

Later.

Opening the leftmost drawer of his dresser, he pulled out the only article within - Roger's glasses - and perched them on his nose. If he was going to look for Freddie, he ought to be able to see clearly.

His hair looked a little flatter, too. Of course, he didn't have Roger's haircare routine down just yet, and hopefully wouldn't have to learn it anytime soon. With the glasses on, he could tell that his hair was starting to grow out, exposing dark roots, which he didn't have the time, nor inclination, to worry about.

It was strange to have gone through his fight with Freddie as a completely different person. John looked down at his hands, which should have been trembling in the aftermath of adrenaline-fueled anxiety, but they were still. His heart should have been thundering in his chest, too, even this long after that spike in temper, but he felt calm, almost serene.

How did Freddie feel, though?

Why should John care? Those words still stung like nothing else, especially since he never loved his appearance. Sometimes he wondered if he was just being too self-conscious, but then Freddie vocalized all his worst fears. Perhaps his critical thoughts were justified. Why couldn't he be pretty, like Roger?

Of course he cared how Freddie felt, though. He couldn't help it.

He tore his gaze away from his reflection, and reached for the keys to the rental car. But then he thought that maybe a walk would clear his head, especially with the sun setting and the cooler night air on his face. He could cover more ground if he drove, but if his hunch about Freddie's whereabouts turned out to be correct, he wouldn't really have to go very far.

Leaving the keys, he sneaked back through the common area and out into the hall.

Outside the hotel, the highway split into four at a nearby intersection. Because of the general lack of traffic, no stoplights hung above the road, though four signs stood at the corners to direct traffic. A few meters down one road, the pavement dissolved into gravelly dirt.

Despite the fact that the dirt road seemed like the least likely for Freddie to travel - Pretty Boy wouldn't want to get his feet dirty - that was exactly where John felt he should go.

And he had no explanation for his reasoning. He must have heard Freddie talking about it or something. It was picturesque, surrounded on both sides with fields full of wildflowers; further on, John could see trees springing up here and there, becoming what looked to be a forest some ways down. Freddie surely would want to check it out, and must have mentioned wanting to take a walk there.

As Brian said before, serendipity.

With each step John took, three words echoed in his mind. Ugly. Old. Dopey. Ugly. Old. Dopey. He couldn't imagine attacking someone else like that, even out of anger. Then he remembered he had, even if he didn't seem to have control over what he was saying. Maybe that made them even? Then again, Freddie hadn't dug quite so deep with his insults, even if they still hurt. If Roger was to be believed, and John had no reason to doubt him, John's tantrum had been borderline unforgivable.

He dragged his feet through the gravel at the side of the road. It made a satisfying scratchy-crunch sound with each step, as his shoes pressed loose pebbles into the dirt. When he kicked at it, little chips of rock skittered across the ground and into the brush, where it disappeared. Tiny rocks were strange things, John decided, only because of their size and dispensability. No one would see the gravel he kicked off the road ever again, and moreover, no one would care that it was gone. In fact, he might be the only person in history to allow a thought for these individual pebbles.

What if John decided to disappear?

The rational part of his mind reminded him that _of course_ people would miss him, even if he'd lost his temper in the most explosive way possible. Everyone would even forgive him for still being angry, because they were all frustrated. How many times could they look in the mirror and see the wrong face there and _not_ break?

But while the others were all holding their own, Freddie had to have a go at John.

Maybe Freddie just thought everyone -- except himself -- was ugly.

With a stab of anger, John asked himself why that should excuse anything.

He felt that tell-tale shock behind his eyes. Struggling to remain calm, John recalled the consequences of losing his temper. He's lose time, and he'd come to in a completely different place. Beyond the wildflowers, even - maybe into the forest, where he'd be hopelessly lost. He took a deep breath, and walked on.

Ugly. Old. Dopey. Ugly. Old.

He never considered how much older he looked than the other guys, despite being the youngest. John knew it all came down to stress and anxiety. Even if he loved performing and being on stage, it took its toll after dozens of shows. He'd always told himself that plenty of other people had grey hair, and it made him look just as distinguished as they did. Except... His idols were in their fifties and sixties, and John was only thirty...

Freddie was right. And Roger, too. If he looked old now, what would he look like as he got older? An absolute _wreck._

Had there been a ditch at the side of the road, John might have crawled into it to hide.

But there wasn't. Just a gravel shoulder littered with trash.

He sauntered on as the road narrowed, allowing the bad thoughts to encroach further. The forest he'd seen in the distance now stood tall on either side of him, casting deep shadows as the moon glimmered overhead. Maybe he didn't belong in the band, and it would be better if he just quietly left. They could find a new bass player. Queen would survive.

 _Shut up_ , he told himself. He liked Queen. And he loved his bandmates, even Freddie, who - he reminded himself - was missing. They'd all get through this, and have a laugh about it when they brought it up at some drunken party years down the line.

It'd be fine.

Obviously, his hunch failed to pan out, though. After searching for over an hour to find a man he was still mad at, John figured he had to turn around at some point. He'd walk until he reached what looked to be a fallen log on the side of the road ahead, then he'd go back to the hotel. Hell, maybe Freddie was even there by now.

That's when John swore he saw the fallen log move.

It pushed itself up on its elbows for a moment, then rolled over, raising a hand. The faintest whisper of a voice reached John's ears, though he couldn't make it out.

Somehow, he already knew who it was.   
  
"Freddie," John said matter-of-factly, picking up his pace until he was jogging. Had he not been so concerned for his friend's well-being, he would have seriously questioned how he knew to come all the way down this road, at least a couple kilometers from civilization, where there were no cars or people, and he could have been attacked at any point by bears or something.

But here he was.

Freddie rolled onto his back, his eyes meeting John's in relief as he stood over him. Even so, the singer's features were etched with pain, his eyes wet, his breathing erratic. One shoe was missing, the ankle puffed up to the size of a grapefruit, and so bruised that John could see the black and blue mosaic on his skin even in the darkness.  Freddie laughed, almost deliriously. "Rog. Roger. God, I'm glad you're here. I don't think I would have made it."

John had a split second of indecision as he looked down at his own pain-twisted face. Of _course_ he wouldn't leave Freddie out here all on his own, but he did entertain the idea, if only for a half-second. In that time, Freddie realized that it wasn't Roger who'd come to his rescue.

The look of pure terror that followed was heartbreaking. Freddie sat up, eyes wide as he fumbled for words and failed. John froze in place, unwilling to leave, but hesitant to make it worse. And that's when Freddie managed, "I know you're mad. But don't leave me. Please."

John knelt next to him. "Freddie, you know I wouldn't."

They stared at each other for an anguishing tense moment, then, at the same time, they said, "I'm sorry."

Obviously, they couldn't sit in the dirt for the rest of the night. "We gotta wrap this ankle," John muttered. He hadn't expected to find Freddie injured, so he hadn't packed bandages or pain killers. Who would, though? At least the night wasn't terribly cold; with that in mind, John pulled his shirt off, and tore it into a long strip.

As he wrapped the swollen ankle, John felt Freddie tremble every few seconds. He also stayed conspicuously silent, though John could never talk during a panic attack, either.

Every time he pulled the bandage tighter, Freddie winced, hissing through his teeth.

"If you kept the shoe on, it wouldn't have swollen so much," John said. He tried to make it sound conversational, but his voice carried an edge, making it almost accusatory.

"We have a long way to go," John said. He stood, pulling Freddie to his feet, as well. He wrapped his injured friend's arm around his shoulder, cursing their current height difference. It wasn't as if he was that much shorter, but it was just enough to make this difficult.

And all the while, John could hear Freddie's frantic pulse hammering through his veins.

For a long time, neither of them said anything. Freddie's heart rate slowed after a while, and he relaxed just a bit, though they still struggled on in silence. John, at least, had no idea how to start a conversation with someone he'd verbally destroyed, and Freddie seemed to feel the same way.

A car - the only car he'd seen since he left - sped past them, not even slowing a little. John tried to flag it down, as it would be so much easier if they had a ride back to the hotel. Maybe the driver didn't see them in the dark.

"Jerk," Freddie managed. "The car, I mean. But you are, too."

"That's fair," John said. "Don't worry, though, Fred. It's not far."

"I walked _forever_ to get out here, darling," Freddie grunted. "Don't tell me it's not far. It sure is a good thing you decided getting new cell phones wasn't a priority."

He was right, of course, as much as John hated to dignify his acerbic remark with a nod. A kilometer measured a lot longer with someone hanging off your shoulder, weighing down each step... And they still had one or two to go. Still, he dragged Freddie onward, a little bit at a time, earnestly wishing he'd budgeted for new phones.

"I really am sorry, John," Freddie said, after another long silence. "I mean, I'm still cross with you, but I _am_ sorry, for my part."

John should have just accepted the apology, but he was still irritated. Not enough to lose his temper again, but enough so that he said, "You're sorry I heard you."

"No, really, I don't think you're bad-looking at all--"

John jostled Freddie just enough to that he put his injured foot down. It was stupid, really, since it was John's own foot. But the cry of pain made him feel a little vindicated.

Freddie wiped an arm across his eyes, brushing away tears. "What the hell is wrong with you, Deacon? If you've got some crazy revenge fetish, I definitely don't want to play."

They walked on for another stretch, saying nothing to each other.

"I want the truth, Freddie," John finally said.

"How about from you?" Freddie returned.

Again, fair. "I didn't even know what I said until Roger told me," John replied. "He said that he used to black out like that, and blow up at something, then he wouldn't remember... I guess that doesn't matter, though. I know what I said now, and I can't take it back. All I can say is that I don't know where it came from, and I didn't mean any of it."

"You really don't remember?" Freddie asked.

"No, I don't," John replied, curling his lip. He hated the fact that a good chunk of time was just... _missing,_ and he might never remember it. "But I said what I did, and I'm sorry."

Maybe he shouldn't have taken his shirt off. Now that the sun had gone, he was starting to shiver a bit. At least Freddie was warm.

"Well, I remember what I said," Freddie muttered. "All of it. And I don't know why I said it. You know I wouldn't want to hurt you, John. Not ever." He stopped, unlooping his arm from John's shoulder. Balancing on one leg, he tangled his fingers in his hair. "And if you want the truth, I wouldn't marry you for your looks, okay?"

He did want the truth. It still stung a bit to hear. John hunched his shoulders, exhaling sharply as he reached for Freddie again, to drag him onward. Freddie, however, danced backward, hopping on one foot and out of reach. "Listen," he said. "That's not why I like you, though. I was being superficial. I was angry. You know I... I like... Pretty things."

"You're digging yourself deeper. Come on." John finally managed to catch Freddie, and they limped farther toward the hotel.

"You're the brightest person I know," Freddie said. "Bright, like sunshine, I mean. Your smile is beautiful, John. And you care for your friends. You care a lot. You shouldn't be offended just because you're not my type, right? That came out wrong. Wait a second..."

Freddie seemed to be entering the word-mush phase following a panic attack. John was familiar with that, too. He arched his eyebrows, glanced sideways at Freddie, and said, "We both fucked up, didn't we?"

"Yeah, kind of."

That was better.

"What I mean is," Freddie went on, "Even if you looked like Godzilla, I'd be proud to call you a friend, because of your heart."

"You think I look like Godzilla, now?" John teased.

"No! No, darling! I said _if_! If! Oh, I should stop talking." He stopped again, sighing. "In any case, I'm sorry. If I asked you out on a date _right now,_ would it help?"

Oh.

Not quite what John was expecting to hear. He found he had trouble answering.

"Actually," Freddie said, looking John up and down. "...hm." He rubbed his chin, squinting at a very inappropriate area, as if trying to decide on something.

John chuckled. He couldn't help it. "My eyes are up here, Fred."

"And they're very pretty eyes, which is why..." Pausing, Freddie shook his head, as if lost.

"You're not feeling it?"

"No," Freddie said.

"Well, if you're like me..." John propped Freddie up again, giving him a gentle tug to get him going. "And you probably are, all things considered, you won't be feeling much of anything for anyone until we get ourselves switched back. But, you can ask Brian about how he feels, if you really want to."

Freddie didn't seem to get it at first, choosing to concentrate on walking for a few steps. "Wait, you mean Brian is...?"

"Yep."

"Oh, the poor boy. It wasn't easy for me, when I first figured it out."

"He's fine. Just not used to it."

"What'd he do, tell you?" Freddie asked.

"Ah, no, when we went to the house, he kind of... Had a moment." John couldn't help wincing, since it hadn't exactly been a picnic for either of them. "I don't think he realized it 'til then, either."

"Ah, poor Brian." Freddie chuckled, wistfully - and perhaps tiredly - gazing off into the distance, where the sky was still purple. "You really don't feel anything for anyone?"

"I don't."

"Huh. Guess there's still stuff I don't know about you. So many secrets, John Deacon."

"It's not a secret. It just never came up."

Freddie smiled through his grimace of pain. "I bet you do now, though. If Brian's gay, and I don't like anyone, you must be absolutely fawning over the ladies. Roger gets a little carried away, you know."

"I'm trying not to think about it," John said, flatly.

"Yeah..." Freddie trailed off, looking at the ground. "Scary how we're all mixed up, isn't it? And none of the pieces are quite fitting together like they should. I really am sorry, John, about what I said. I like you. You're like family."

John almost reconsidered saying something mushy and sentimental, but he went ahead with it anyway. "I'm sorry, too. I guess brothers fight sometimes."

"Yeah, brothers," Freddie said.

The forest became grassland again, and the road slowly widened. They could see lights on the horizon, signaling their re-emergence into a populated area. It still seemed to take forever... By the time the hotel appeared, they were both exhausted. "Just remind me not to piss you off while you're still Roger, okay?" Freddie said.   
  
"Deal. Freddie?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't piss me off. Won't end well for either of us."

"Noted."

Thankfully, someone was exiting the hotel at the same time they were entering it, so John didn't have to juggle Freddie _and_ the door. "We'll get you up to bed, and you can rest. Your ankle'll feel better tomorrow."

"Bed? John, you absolute idiot. I need to get to the hospital! It'll be worse tomorrow!"

"Shut up, Freddie."

He did, but only for a moment. When they reached the elevators, he said, "You shut up! I need an ambulance. I'm not going to be responsible for your foot being fucked up forever."

"It's just a sprain. You'll be fine." John tried to smile reassuringly, but he was too tired. He was sure he snarled instead, judging by the face Freddie made.

"Oh, dear," Freddie said. And that was the end of that argument.

Once they were in the elevator, Freddie leaned on the rail, closing his eyes for a moment, as they waited. He did look exhausted, and now John could see that he was covered in dirt from lying on the ground. When Freddie opened his eyes again, he seemed to do a double-take, squinting at John. "Your hair's grey," he said.

"It's not. You're just not used to the light," John replied. "You've been in the dark for hours."

Had it been hours?

"If you say so." Freddie wouldn't stop staring, though, as if he were trying to get his eyes to adjust. It was... uncomfortable.

Once the elevator opened, John was quick to drape Freddie's arm over his shoulder again, and the two of them hobbled to their suite. By this point, both had fallen into a quiet exhaustion, too worn out to even utter pleasantries or small talk. John even stared at their door for a solid minute before he had the presence of mind to realize he had to unlock it, or it wouldn't ever open for them.

It was dark inside the room. Only one lamp was on, casting a soft glow on Roger and Brian, who stood by the window. "We saw you in the parking lot," Roger said. His smile was relieved, friendly, and very welcome. "What happened? Are you okay, Fred?"

"Just hurt my ankle. And my pride." Freddie let go of John's shoulder, and limped over to the couch. He propped his foot up on the coffee table, his face twisting in pain as he leaned backward. "I think I stepped in a bloody gopher hole."

Realizing how tired he was, John sat next to Freddie, also putting his feet up on the table. "Do me a favor and don't wake me up 'til noon," he muttered.

"Same," Freddie said.

Roger wasn't done, though. "But... How'd you find him?"

"Can't you just be glad we're both home safe?" John asked.

"No," Roger said.

Wonderful. Unfortunately, it wasn't a question John could easily answer. 'Intuition' didn't seem like a good explanation, nor did 'luck.' He just knew, and even though whatever led him to that answer resulted in Freddie returning safe and sound, the whole thing bothered John more than he'd like to admit to the others. Something felt decidedly wrong. In the end, he just said, "I just went for a walk. I wasn't really looking."

"Why are you shirtless?" Brian asked, a note of desperation and panic in his voice.

"Because it's here," Freddie said, pointing to the wrapping around his ankle. Then he broke into a grin as he realized what had Brian so upset. "Oh, dear. Is it the chest or the shoulders, darling?"

"It's not funny," Brian said. He started inching away, eyes narrowed. He couldn't seem look away.

"I'm sorry," John said, unable to really make himself care, given his current state of fatigue. He was pretty, after all. Let Brian stare.

"Probably the chest," Freddie mused, flippantly. "Roger does have a nice chest. I think. It's hard to remember now."

"Do I?" Roger said, smirking as he caught on. "Tell me more."

"So bare and smooth..." Freddie said.

"Fuck all of you," Brian grumbled. He retreated into his room and slammed the door.

"That wasn't nice," John laughed, closing his eyes. "We shouldn't have done that."

"But you weren't kidding." Freddie leaned against his shoulder, signing contentedly. "He's got it bad."


	6. An Old Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weird stuff really starts happening now. Well, weirder than what's already happened. Actually, compared to their other problems, this one's pretty tame.

As far as the science concerned him, Brian found his complete shift in preferences quite interesting. Of course, he could have found it much more interesting were it happening to someone else, where he didn't have to deal with it directly. In short, he was confused and irritated.

He could chalk up his strong reactions to the newness of his attraction, he supposed. Surely Freddie didn't have to excuse himself every time Roger appeared shirtless.

It would have been a lot easier if the other guys weren't being such arseholes about it!

He found them all on the couch, covered with an old, scratchy wool blanket. It probably used to be brown, though it had faded considerably with repeated washings. Bundled up in one corner, with his head completely covered, John slept curled up on one cushion. Next to him, Freddie still leaned against his shoulder, with the injured foot propped up on the table. Roger sprawled at the other end of the couch, partially draped over the arm. He snored softly, his legs lying across the other two.

Brian wadded up the t-shirt in his hand and whipped it at the sleeping trio. He meant to hit John, though his aim was off considerably, so it smacked Freddie right between the eyes instead. Freddie awakened with a start, confusion written across his features as he searched for his attacker. He narrowed his eyes at Brian.

"Wake John up and get a shirt on him, dammit," Brian growled.  
  
"Don't get so worked up over it, dear," Freddie said, yawning and stretching. He settled back against the cushions. "Rog. Roger. Hey, my legs are asleep."

In response, Roger snored. Freddie gave him a good shove, rolling him onto the floor. After a hearty _thud,_ his eyes opened for just a second - long enough for him to say something unintelligible - then he went right back to sleep.

"Seems about right," Freddie said, nudging Roger with a toe. He folded the shirt neatly, and draped it over the back of the couch. "I am sorry about last night. You know, you just looked so flustered, I couldn't help it."

"I was. Flustered, I mean," Brian said. "And it wasn't funny."

"It was a little funny."

"I don't want to talk about it, anyway."

"Ignore it and it'll go away," Freddie said. "What a wonderful way of dealing with our problems."

Brian flopped down on the chair across from the couch, crossed his arms, and very maturely said, "Shut up, Fred."

"Ooh, it's 'Fred' now. So terrifying. I'm shaking in my boots." Freddie wiggled his fingers, arching his eyebrows. "Well, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. Maybe I'm just used to it now. And you know me, I'm not exactly the most empathic sort."

The apology sounded genuine enough, but Brian still felt uneasy, like it was a big deal. He never really had to think about it before, since he always had the privilege of subscribing to society's expectations of him. No one cared when he mooned over a woman he found beautiful, or intelligent, or both, but now, all he could do was worry about what other people would think.

And that grated on him.

"Honestly," Brian said, "I always thought it was... You know. A choice--at least in part? Like you decided--"

Freddie interrupted. "You think I would have chosen to be gay, knowing that people would want to hurt me for it? Just for being who I am?"

Brian shook his head.

"I tried _not_ to be, you know," Freddie said. His lip curled a little as he looked down, tracing a pattern on the couch cushion. When he leaned back, he crossed his legs at the ankle, which didn't seem to pain him too terribly. "I thought it was all silly, that I was just being an idiot, and that if I tried hard enough, I could be... Well, like you. And Roger."

"And?"

"And I was _miserable."_

"Yeah, I guess I get that now. I just... don't seem to be able to..." Brian couldn't make himself say anymore, so he met Freddie's eyes instead, searching for understanding. Thankfully, Freddie nodded.

"This is about Roger."

Brian nodded. He felt his cheeks heating up.

"Well, to be honest, there's not much you can do about it. Roger's just unnaturally beautiful."

"It's true," Roger muttered from the floor.

"But, in all seriousness," Freddie went on, "It gets easier after a while. You get used to how gorgeous he is, and how very straight he is..." He sighed wistfully, shaking his head. "A shame, really. Still, you'll get over it. Soon, you'll see that bare chest, and you'll realize that you just can't have it, and you'll move on."

Roger opened one eye. "I'm awfully sorry, Freddie."

"It's okay, darling."

"I'm... Gonna go make coffee," Brian said, stumbling out of his chair and escaping the conversation. Freddie was right, though, much to Brian's relief. The warm feeling didn't hit him like a sack of bricks this time, or a speeding train.

Freddie covered a smile, though his eyes were apologetic.

Roger stood and stretched, pushing an extremely tangled, curly mop out of his eyes. Short hair never worked for Brian, though Roger, for whatever reason, preferred it. He'd fallen into a calm detachment, just at the edge of happy and sad, walking a line just between without breaking in either direction.

With everything going on, Brian wondered if they were becoming each other. Maybe they'd get too comfortable.

Maybe, for whatever reason, this was permanent.

It wouldn't be so bad, would it? He could deal with being Freddie for the rest of his life, after he got through some of the hang-ups. The loss of his identity scared him, though... The eradication of his former life, the only vestiges of which now existed in his memories. No, they weren't becoming each other. They were becoming entirely new people, the likes of which the world had never seen before.

At the same time, the fact that he could lose himself in philosophy while making coffee reminded Brian that he was still himself, and he had nothing to worry about.

"What's funny?" Roger asked.

Brian looked up.

"You're smiling."

"Nothing, really. Just thinking about..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Just thinking. You wake John up yet?"

"Let him sleep another minute." Freddie stretched in place, three limbs sprawling while the injured leg remained as stationary as possible. "It took hours for him to carry me back here last night. He's got to be tired."

"Yeah, it's not like John to sleep through..." Roger arched his eyebrows. "Anything, really. He shoulda woke up the second we started talking."

"You try hauling my arse around for a bit, see how you feel," Freddie said, settling back into the blanket. "Especially 'cuz I'm a giant right now."

"A giant." Roger's hands rested on his hips. "I'm the one that's freakishly tall."

"Watch it," Brian warned.

"Whatever," Roger said. "Every time I walk under a door, I feel like I'm going to smack my head on it. I've been ducking."

Brian smiled. "Yeah, I don't miss that. Sometimes my hair'll brush the frame." He poured a couple cups of coffee, then went about looking for something to put in it to dull the bitterness.

Freddie leaned forward, tugging at the shirt-bandage, until he found where it was tied. "Funny," he said. "I thought this would hurt more today than it does."

"You should leave it wrapped," Brian said. "I think. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

Roger shrugged.

"No, I want to see it." Freddie continued tugging at the end of the bandage until it came loose. "It was all sorts of pretty colors last night. I can't imagine what it looks like now."

Brian cradled a box of sugar packets in his arm, and a mug in each hand. Returning to the others, he set one mug next to Freddie's foot.

Somehow, Freddie managed to convey the entire sentence "What? This isn't tea!" With one scathing look, all while saying nothing.

"It's payback for the teasing," Brian said. "You get coffee this morning. Deal with it."

"Fine, fine," Freddie said, abandoning the bandage for a moment. He grabbed six or seven packets of sugar, systematically emptying each into his mug. "Not like I can get up to make my own, is it? This is torture. Absolutely relentless."

"What, none for me?" Roger asked.  
  
"You've got legs," Brian replied. "Besides, I've only got the two arms!"

Roger made a show of stomping off to the kitchenette.

"Have you been all right, by the way?" Brian looked over his shoulder. The expression on Roger's face softened into a smile.

"Oh, sure. No crying, if that's what you mean."

"Mostly."

He ran his fingers through the curls again, squinting upward. "Tell you what. If I show up with a shaved head, then you can worry."

"If you shave my head..." Brian cross his arms on the back of the chair, resting his chin on them. "You'll have more than depression to worry about, I promise."

Freddie tugged at the shirt-bandage again, finally untying it. "You wouldn't kill him in your own body."

Brian had to admit, he wouldn't. He still held onto hope that they could resolve their problem, and in that case, he wouldn't want to be dead. "Don't shave my head," he said, pointing at Roger, who shrugged.

Freddie uttered a quiet "Huh," then, "Would you look at that. Look at it!"

He dropped the torn shirt onto the floor and held his leg up, flexing the ankle easily, as if it hadn't been injured at all. In fact, there wasn't even any bruising or swelling, nor anything to indicate that there ever was. No one said anything for a long time. When Roger returned, he gestured at Freddie's foot with his mug, coffee sloshing out onto the floor. "Neat trick. Did you make John carry you all the way back to the hotel as a prank?"

"That's something _you_ would do," Brian said.

"Hah, yeah," Roger laughed.

But Freddie didn't see the humor. He turned pale, eyes widening as he stared at his miraculously uninjured leg. "I swear I didn't!" His voice rose in panic, increasing in volume.

Under the blanket, John stirred.   
  
"He's not going to believe me!" Freddie hissed.

A low groan came from the blanket, and two arms appeared, stretching. "I'm trying to _sleep,"_ John grumbled. "Although with these cushions, I might as well have just fallen asleep on rocks. Christ."

Roger, in perhaps one of his most genius maneuvers ever, picked up the t-shirt and threw it back onto Freddie's foot, just before John pulled the blanket off his head.

Brian looked away. He didn't need a repeat of last night.

"What'd you say about me not believing you?" John asked. Out of the corner of his eye, Brian saw him reach out and take Freddie's coffee.

No one replied. Brian pretended to be particularly interested in his fingernails.

"Fine," John said. He took a sip of the coffee. "This is terrible. Who the hell could ruin coffee?"

"Er..." Freddie said. "John, are you feeling okay?"

Small talk, Brian imagined, as Freddie figured out what to say. Still, Brian wished someone would hurry up and get a shirt on John, so he didn't have to study the ugly carpet any longer.

"How do you think?" John snarled. Brian heard joints cracking; John uttered a syllable of pain. "Honestly, I didn't think I'd be quite this sore. My back is killing me. And my neck, and..."

"You're sure you're all right, though?" Freddie asked.

John's tone softened a little. "I'm not mad at you, Freddie. I'd carry you back here again, if I had to, it's just that I'm--"

"Bloody hell," Roger interrupted. "John, you look like Santa Claus! _I_ look like Santa--I mean, you, in my--What the hell did you do to me?"

Unable to fight his curiosity, Brian looked up.

He recognized the blue eyes. They hadn't changed a bit, although they carried just a hint of John's constant irritation. But the face...

It was weathered. Old. Wrinkled. Recognizable, but considerably altered, with deep lines and jowls and spots here and there where there hadn't been spots before. John's hairline had receded an inch or so; the hair itself was thin and snow-white instead of blond. Stubble of the same color covered his jawline and chin, just a little longer than one would expect after only a few hours of sleep.

Then again, no one would expect someone to age thirty years after just a few hours of sleep, either.

"What the hell are you talking about?" John finally asked, utterly confused. He narrowed his eyes, looking to each of the others for an explanation.

Roger patted his own belly and asked, "Did you eat a watermelon or something?"

"Roger, shut up," Brian said. Although he had to admit, John now had a bit of a paunch, as older people tended to develop.  
  
John reflexively looked down at himself, freezing as he saw the white hair, the thinner skin, and the few liver spots that had formed around his wrists. He brought his hands up in front of his face, holding them to the light and flipping them over. Then he searched the others for answers again.   
  
"You're old," Roger said.

"Shut the fuck _up,_ Roger!" Freddie snapped.

"He is!" Roger replied.

John pushed the blanket onto the couch and attempted to stand. After failing a couple times, he sank back onto the cushion, staring despairingly at the floor. Freddie took the coffee mug and set it aside, stood, and pulled John to his feet.

John didn't comment on Freddie's healed ankle. Instead, he hobbled away - joints continuing to crack with every step, his back refusing to straighten entirely - all the way to the mirror. No one said anything as he stared at his reflection. How could they? Brian tried to come up with some explanation as to why this could have happened, or some words of comfort or sympathy, but how could he adequately respond to something so entirely atypical?

"John," Freddie said. He kicked the shirt aside and approached their aged friend, standing just behind him.

"You're walking all right," John said mildly, almost mechanically, as he continued staring at himself. He turned his head in all directions, trying to make sense of his appearance.

He clawed at his cheek, as if trying to pull off a mask. Instead, he scratched a bloody line into it; Freddie grabbed for his wrist, pulling it away. "What are you doing?"

"You did this," John said, turning an accusing eye to Freddie. "You, or Roger."

"We didn't! I swear!" Roger said.

John then focused on Brian, who could only shake his head.

"Then how...?" John turned back to his reflection.

Freddie let go of his wrist, and John rubbed at his cheek, smudging red all the way back to his ear. He seemed awed and confused more than upset. "I saw it yesterday," he said quietly. "I thought I was tired, but... I saw it, just before I went looking for you, Fred."

"And in the elevator, I said your hair was grey, and you didn't believe me." Freddie stepped back, biting his lip. "It's not a joke, though, dear. We're as concerned as you are."

"You all called me old, and it happened," John said. His voice shook just a little - the first hint he was going to break. "How?"

Roger stomped over to the mirror. "Look, I told all of you, we should have been paying more attention to the news! All that weird stuff started happening after the fires. Like, that griffin in New York, or wherever--"

"A griffin?" Freddie asked.

"Yeah, you know. The thing."

"The pigeon with four legs."

"No!" Roger said. "They showed a picture, and it had the... Well, a pigeon head, and pigeon paws - the front ones - but the rest of it was a cat, I think."

"And I heard something on the radio, about some new island off the east coast of Africa," Brian said. "Big enough that it would have been seen, if it existed before."

"The talking koala in Australia," Freddie added.

"Guys," John said. "What am I gonna do?"

He still stared at his reflection, though there were wet tracks down his cheeks now, his eyes wide. He glanced sideward at Brian for a moment and said, "What if I stay like this? What if Roger stays like this?"

Roger frowned, scratching his head. Freddie put his hand on John's shoulder again.

"I don't know," said Brian.

John took a deep breath, wiping his face. He nodded, turning away from the mirror. "Okay, we don't know right _now._ But we will. Right? We'll... Figure it out. Or we'll hear something."

He looked almost frail, with his stooped back and slightly bent posture. Brian resisted shrugging. Freddie might have nodded a little.

"What if it was aliens?" Roger asked.

Both Freddie and Brian started to protest, but at the same time, they came to the conclusion that an explanation of 'aliens' wasn't too far-fetched.

"Well, then we'll... Make them put things right," Freddie said. "If it's aliens." He scowled. "Although, if I were an alien, I'd certainly do more important things with my time than fixing ankles and aging musicians."

John meandered over to the couch again, practically falling onto it, and rested his elbows on his knees. He stared at nothing, his expression hopeless and lost. He didn't even mind that the others were openly gawking at him.

Brian retrieved the shirt from the couch, sat next to John, and held it out. "Please?" he asked.

At least that earned a chuckle. "Still?" John replied.

"Yes," Brian said. "And shut up."

John sighed, though his smile was warm as he pulled the shirt over his head.


	7. Mission: Implausible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a computer and a bit of time, the guys figure out what happened, and who's responsible.

"Dun-dun, DAH-DAH, dun-dun--"

"Are you _ever_ going to _stop?"_ Freddie asked, glaring over at Roger in the driver's seat. His shoulders were thrown back, his arms straight as he held the wheel.   
  
"It's the Mission Impossible theme song!" Roger barely paused before picking up where he left off. "Bwa-na-NAH... Bwa-na-nah... Brian's got a good voice. He can't quite hit the high notes, though. Listen."

Roger demonstrated by escalating his voice as high as he could muster. The note cracked and fell flat. Freddie covered his ears. 

"I bloody know what it is. Are you going to stop?"

Roger made a show of considering for a moment, then stepped on the gas to speed through a yellow light. "Nah. Hey, you should try singing with John's voice. See if it actually works, or if he's just too shy."

"No, I couldn't," Freddie said, though the idea was tempting. They always wondered; Brian claimed he even heard John singing in the shower once, though no one could verify, and John denied everything. "I can't. It'd be a breach of trust. Besides, if it's terrible, I'd be embarrassing myself _and_ John."

Roger shrugged, and continued belting out the theme song at a strikingly high volume, now employing the steering wheel as a percussion instrument.

Freddie sighed. He did have a limit to his patience, after all, and Roger was pulling at every frayed edge. "It's not even impossible! It's quite do-able, actually!"

Again, Roger seemed to consider, then said, "We need code names."

"How about Roger. And Freddie."

"No, they'll be expecting that," Roger said. "Look, I'll be 'Cool Eagle,' and you can be 'Boorish Killjoy.'"

Fair enough, Freddie thought.

As they passed a fifty kilometer-per-hour sign going somewhere just over sixty, Freddie instinctively checked for highway patrol. It'd be their luck to get pulled over right now, without logical ID. John should have been driving - John should have been the only one allowed to drive - but he currently didn't look like his ID picture, either, nor did he currently have the mindset to operate a vehicle. And with Freddie having no knowledge of driving, and Brian looking like Freddie, both of them were out.

So Roger volunteered. He said he looked enough like the picture on the license to get by.

Bollocks, of course. But someone needed to drive.

"This is Cool Eagle calling Boorish Killjoy. Come in, Killjoy," Roger said to his wrist, which had nothing strapped to it.

"I'm not participating in this bullshit," Freddie said.

"Man, you sound just like John," Roger said, still talking to his wrist. "Good thinking. _Great_ cover. We can use that. Oh. You have to talk into your secret invisible walkie-talkie, by the way, or I can't hear you." He gave his wrist a wiggle, showing off the imaginary device.

Freddie rolled his eyes. "Are you sure there's even a store down this way?"

"Nuh-uh. Not at all." Roger grinned, showing off all his teeth, and Brian's slight underbite. "But I figure, if we drive long enough, we'll run into something."

"If you don't slow down and watch the road, we're _literally_ going to run into something!"

Roger giggled, hit the brakes, and tore around a corner, tires squealing.

Freddie held onto his seat and spit out a couple words best not used in proper company. He loathed the sensation of being unable to catch his breath even when sitting still, like someone had a grip on his throat, constricting. With his pulse hammering, he felt like he was in the death throes of a marathon, losing badly, while just barely managing to stay with the middle of the pack. In that moment, everything ached.   
  
The engine revved. Freddie dared not look at the speedometer for fear he'd faint.

"This is Cool Eagle," Roger said. "We've shaken off our pursuers and are en route to... Somewhere, probably."

Freddie's words were jumbling together in his head again. It took him several tedious seconds before he managed to eke out, "Slow the fuck down, you idiot!"  
  
Roger lowered his wrist, glancing sidelong. "Er... Are you okay?"

Freddie could only shake his head as words failed him.

"Sorry," Roger said, barely audible. To his credit, he did bring the car closer to the speed limit.

Freddie closed his eyes, one hand on his chest as the other grappled for the lever to recline his seat. Lying back, he took a few deep breaths and tried to visualize a peaceful meadow, with deer and a bubbling brook and maybe some pink flowers.

"Look, I just need to feel alive, okay?" Roger said, then added, "After seeing... Seeing what happened to me. I mean, John. After seeing... me. Like that."

"He didn't mean to upset you, dear."

"I know." The car slowed further as Roger squinted at something ahead.

Freddie peeked through the window at an old column sign that said, "KC's Electronics Emporium." It was as good a place as any, he supposed. Roger turned into the unkempt gravel lot, the car bumping along on the remains of old asphalt.

"I mean," Roger went on, "I never really thought about what I'd look like when I got old, and now I look at John, and..." Roger trailed off, his whole body shivering. "It's like looking at a corpse."

"It's not as bad as all that," Freddie said. Now that Roger had ceased his antics, Freddie could see the anxious set of his shoulders, and the way his eyes kind of stared out the wind screen at nothing in particular, like they couldn't focus. For any of them, aging was always such a nebulously vague idea; they all understood they'd get older and suffer all the things that came with it, but it seemed so far off...

How could anyone ignore it now?

The lot was filled with cars of all types, parked in a dozen different directions, since there were no painted lines. Perhaps subconsciously, Roger situated their rental between an old, rusted pickup truck straight out of the seventies, and a brand-new shiny hybrid fresh off the showroom floor. If Roger couldn't appreciate the metaphor at the moment, Freddie certainly could. He smiled wryly, as Roger looked down at his hands.

"It's not just John, either," Roger said. "We all changed. And we all still might."

"Yes, I'm aware," Freddie replied, his voice soft. He felt sorry for Roger, dwelling in Brian's mind. Without warning, he'd gone from happily reckless to sullen sot, all in a matter of seconds.

"How is that even possible?" Roger adjusted the rearview mirror, staring into it. "It still freaks me out when I see myself, you know? Sometimes I think I've gotta be dreaming."

Freddie arched an eyebrow. "Well, I'm _sure_ it's much more difficult for you than it is for John."

"Mm-hm," Roger said, readjusting the mirror to its prior position. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you."

"Don't be silly. Of course it does."

Still, Freddie thought. Roger was right. He'd had his own struggle with the wrongness of their situation, and couldn't wrap his head around it. No matter how many times he told himself it was real, and it had happened, it seemed more like he dreamt it, or that he read it in an exceptionally campy tabloid.

He looked down at his hands. At John's weathered, calloused fingers, toughened from years of playing bass. When he told his fingers to move, John's moved instead, because somehow, he was in the wrong body.

Impossible, but true.

"It's kind of wonderful, though, isn't it?" Roger asked. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes, sighing. "I mean, who ever thought there'd be magic in the world?"

"Magic," Freddie repeated. "Sounds weird to say it."  
  
"Yeah..." Roger nodded. "What else would you call it, though? Strange things happening. No explanation? That's magic."

They were quiet for a while, then Freddie held his wrist up and said, "This is Boorish Killjoy calling Cool Eagle. We're in position to begin operation. Do you copy?"

Roger immediately brightened and said, "Let's do this."  
  


\---

  
"How many fires were there again?" Brian asked. He tapped his pencil on the desk, glancing back at John.

John had the blanket pulled around him, letting his eyes droop. He didn't necessarily need more sleep, though fatigue kept getting the better of him. He'd already dozed off several times. "Thirty-five hundred, according to Roger," he said. "Give or take. No one can account for..." He yawned, the statement tapering off. He didn't have the energy to finish it.

"You okay?"

John shifted uncomfortably, pulling the blanket more tightly around him. He honestly couldn't think of anything to say, even sarcastically, to answer that question. Sure, he had hope that things would turn out fine, but all he could think about was the giant question mark surrounding what happened to him -- what happened to all of them. Every once in a while, he'd even check to make sure Brian's hair wasn't turning grey, just in case their affliction followed some sort of pattern.

So far, John seemed to be the only elder.

"No, I guess you wouldn't be," Brian mumbled. He went back to his notebook paper, scrawling across the lines, fitting his facts and figures between his other scribbles. "Thirty-five hundred is an incredibly small portion of the population. It's just five thousandths of one percent. Estimated, of course, depending on the actual population of earth, and the actual number of fires."  
  
"Lucky us," John grumbled. He pulled the blanket over his nose and scowled under it.

"Well, we're only _assuming_ that the fires caused... This," Brian said. "It's a good assumption, but you know what they say about assuming before you know all the facts."

John grunted. He felt that heaviness in his eyes again, and the peaceful lull of sleep tugging at his consciousness. Afraid that sleep would cause him to age further, he hesitantly pushed the blanket off and began the long struggle of getting to his feet. Brian rose from his chair, arm outstretched...

"Don't _help,"_ John snapped, much harsher than he intended.

Brian drew back as if slapped. "Sorry, I just..."

Leveraging himself on the arm of the couch, and with a little momentum, John was able to pull himself upright on his own. "It's fine, Brian. I'm not mad at _you."_ Really, he wasn't mad at anyone or anything, except their fairly puzzling dilemma. Why would he age thirty years overnight?

He was about to tell Brian as much when the door crashed open, slamming into the wall behind it with a great, thundering _thud._

John jumped, tripped on his unsteady feet, and fell against Brian, taking them both to the floor.

Whether landing atop Brian was a good thing, John couldn't say. On one hand, he made a great cushion, which meant John didn't break his hip or something equally terrible. On the other, Brian was now wide-eyed and blushing furiously. John rolled to one side, and Brian bumbled to his feet, distancing himself a few steps.

At least the adrenaline allowed John to sit himself upright - on the floor, granted - but at least he wasn't struggling around on his back like an old turtle.

Oblivious to the accident, Roger rushed in, cradling something under his arm. Freddie followed just after at a much more sedate pace, his hands in his pockets.

Just after Freddie closed the door, Roger opened it again and checked the hall. "This is Cool Eagle calling... Uh. What was it again?"

"Boorish Killjoy," Freddie said. "And I'm right here. You don't have to--"   
  
"Right, Killjoy. I think we're in the clear. We weren't followed."

"Who would follow us?" Freddie asked. Strangely, he was talking to his wrist.

"What the fuck are they doing?" John asked, looking up at Brian, who only shrugged.

Roger side-stepped into the bathroom and motioned for Freddie to get behind the opposite wall. Rolling his eyes, Freddie complied.

Brian rubbed his forearm, where a great purple bruise was starting to form. He glared at Roger, then at Freddie, then sat back down at the desk. "For God's sake, you two! Did you get it, or not?"

Roger made some sort of motion to Freddie with one hand. Freddie said, "What the hell does that mean?"

"I dunno," Roger replied. "They do it in the movies. I think it means 'go.'"

"Does that mean I can stop hiding behind the wall?"

"Yeah."

Abruptly falling out of his role, Freddie threw up his hands and abandoned his post, muttering a quiet "Finally" under his breath. He dragged his feet over to the couch, where he flopped down on it, dramatically touching the back of his hand to his forehead. "You know he had us running around the store for an hour?"

"Hah," Roger said. "It wasn't that long." He pulled the box out from under his arm, and sauntered to the desk, placing it in front of Brian. "Mission accomplished."

"It was an hour, or more," Freddie said. "I felt every excruciating minute."

He was smiling, though, so he couldn't have been that torn up about it. John didn't see the joy, however, as he tried to struggle to his feet without the others figuring out what he was doing. Eventually, he leaned back against the foot of the couch, resigned to the idea that he might not be going anywhere for a while.

"This wasn't a covert operation." Brian turned the box around, revealing the image of a laptop on the front as he read the side. "In fact, it seemed fairly straightforward. All you had to do was go to the store and get a computer."

"Which we did," Freddie said.

"Yes," Roger agreed. "It's a shitty one, but she'll get us online."

"She?" Brian asked. He opened the box and pulled out the Styrofoam packing.

"Yeah, I named her Miranda."

"He actually had the tech at the store change the hard drive's name to 'Miranda,'" Freddie said. "He's not kidding."

Brian passed the box to John, who checked out the specs. It would have been a good computer ten years ago, he supposed. "Shitty is an understatement."

"Miranda's this girl from high school. She started dating some other guy while she was still seeing me?" Roger said. "So yeah, I figured, we give the computer an appropriate name..."

"You shouldn't call people 'shitty,'" Brian admonished, opening the laptop. It was small, with a shiny screen that looked almost warped in the right light. It had no anti-glare coating. "You couldn't have gotten anything better?"

"No, this was the one," Roger said. "I knew it as soon as I saw it."

"I did try to deter him," Freddie sighed. "So did the salesman. To no avail, I'm afraid. In any case, it's got one of those... wireless... chip... things... So as shitty as it is, like Roger said, it'll get us online."

"If Freddie can tell a computer's awful, you know it's awful," John said, passing the box back to Brian.

"I should be offended," Freddie said. He leaned over the side of the couch, grabbing the power cord, and plugged it in.

Brian connected the cable to the computer and turned it on.

As they waited for it to boot, which took an incredibly long time - even for a shitty computer - John noticed Roger staring at him. As soon as he glanced sideward, though, Roger quickly looked away, conspicuously staring up at the ceiling, instead.

As bad as John felt for himself, he felt terrible for Roger, too.

"Here we go," Brian said. "Give me another second here... Maybe a minute. Or two. God dammit, Rog."

Roger beamed.

"Okay... Okay, what do I search for?" Brian asked. "Weird... Fires? Or...?"

"BBC was calling it the 'arson pandemic' or something," Roger said. "You can start there."

Brian typed it in, muttering about the non-responsive touchpad. John would have loved to see what was popping up on the screen, but from his vantagepoint, he couldn't see a thing.

Roger stood over his shoulder as Brian scrolled. Eventually, he said, "Try that one."

Brian read for a while. "This is all mostly stuff we know," he said. "Thousands of fires at the same time, induced effects across the population, no word on the source... This one's old, though. Lemme go back and search the site itself."

He typed in something else, and waited.

"We need something from today," Roger said. "Or yesterday. I have been watching, you know. I told you it was important."

"This was published this morning," Brian said. "Yeah, this is just what we need. Fire bloom, they're calling it now."

"Is it aliens?" Roger asked.

Brian narrowed his eyes, shaking his head. His eyes darted back and forth across the screen as he read, brows lowering more and more with each second.

"Brian, c'mon, we can't hear your thoughts," Freddie said.

"Er, sorry." Brian scrolled back, clearing his throat, and read, "'One person, speaking under the condition of anonymity, revealed that they quickly learned to manipulate glass, just by thinking about it. When asked when this ability manifested, they stated that it began the night their house burned down.'"

"Read that one," Roger said.

"It's just..." Brian said. "It's more people, saying they're... Doing things. They're making these things happen. All anonymous."

"Well, can you blame them?" Freddie asked. He sat forward on the couch, elbows resting on his knees. "Beside the point at the moment, I suppose. Are you saying one of us..." He gestured to the others, then to himself, "Did this?"

"That's what this article seems to imply," Brian said. "Let me do another search... It's useless if I can't corroborate."

"Why would we do this to ourselves?" Freddie asked. "I mean, it doesn't make sense, darling. And if any of is did do it, wouldn't we have the decency to put things right? Or at least admit to it?"

For some reason, John felt a shiver up his spine. A great sense of unease. It was one thing when he could blame some unseen force for their troubles, but if it really was one of them... One of his friends... "It could have been an accident," John suggested hopefully, encouragingly - he hoped, considering the fact that he was about to lay blame. "It any case, it must have been Freddie or Roger, else why would this happen to me?"

He gestured at himself. As if he really needed to. The others knew what he was talking about.

Roger scratched his head. "I don't know how you think I managed _that._ Besides, it could have been Brian, too. He was there. He heard Freddie say it."

"But, you know... After I left," John said. "We talked. You said I really did look old, and maybe... Holy hell, this is ridiculous. Brian, have you found anything else?"

"Everything confirming what's on the BBC," he said. "There's even a video about someone making those pigeon-griffins Roger loves so much. Look."

He turned the screen and slanted it downward, so they could all see. The video was good quality, but it only showed someone's hands, as they cradled a pigeon, stroking its back until it grew and changed before their eyes.

"He's gonna do it again," Roger said. "He's gonna do it to another bird--look."   
  
The camera panned out. Not to reveal the perpetrator of the otherworldly transformations, but to show a dilapidated pigeon coop, set against a cloudy, blue sky. Several of the griffin-creatures climbed over it and inside, too, their claws clutching the wire fencing. One of them, a tabby with the fluffy, white head of a dove, took off, soaring into the distance.

"It could be special effects," Freddie said.

"There's too much evidence, though," Roger said. "It's all over--Look, there's another article. Click on that one. See? There's a photo of the island Brian was talking about, and it's on a completely different site. "And there. And there. Keep scrolling..."

"Do I really need to?" Brian asked. His voice flat. "He's right, though. There's just... too much. Here's another video of one of those pigeon-things in New Jersey. If it was some sort of conspiracy... I don't know. I don't know."

Roger turned, tangling his fingers in his hair. He exhaled loudly and sharply, then knelt in front of John. "Okay, let's say it was me. How do I fix it? How do I make him young again, or whatever?"  

"You can't just _accept_ that it's you," Freddie said. "Or any of us. This is ludicrous. I'd sooner believe it's aliens!"

"You should be trying, too," Roger said. "If it was you, I want you to fix this so I’m not ancient anymore. C'mon, Fred!"

"I wouldn't know the first thing about un-aging someone!" Freddie snapped. Still, he put a hand on John's shoulder, as if contact would help. "Okay, I'm thinking about it."

The more John thought about it, the colder he felt. Unease crept into his mind, as if his very consciousness was trying to protect him from the truth. He tried to reject it, but he supposed he always knew. Now that Brian revealed the final, all-important piece of the puzzle, he couldn't deny it anymore.

He really tried.

Looking up, he met Brian's eyes. He'd figured it out, too.

"Okay, John," Roger said. "Do you feel anything? Are you feeling younger? I'm thinking really hard about un-fucking whatever I did. Freddie is, too."

"I am not," Freddie said. "It's not me!"

"It could be. Your ankle's fixed! Explain that!"

"I can't!"

"John, do you feel anything?" Roger asked again. "Ignore Freddie. He's a prat."

"No," John said, completely honestly. His emotions all blended together and came up blank. He had nothing to feel.

"Guys," Brian said quietly. "Stop."

Roger looked over his shoulder. "You find something else?"

Brian smiled, a pitying look in his eyes. "It wouldn't have been so damning if it wasn't for the safe," he said. "The whole corner of John's room was just... Fine. Like there was no fire at all. The walls didn't even have soot on them."

"I thought it was luck," John managed to choke.

Roger backed off, sitting on his heels.

John couldn't make himself look anyone in the eye. From the jumble inside him, fear began to separate itself from the pack.

"You don't think it was John?" Roger asked.

"Who's harder on John than John is?" Brian asked. "All that talk about him being old, and... He did it to himself."

"And I knew right where to find Freddie," John said, still staring through the others. "I knew right where to go. Exactly the right spot. And there he was. He could have gone in any direction, but I... I went right to him. I thought that was luck, too."

"And you wrapped my ankle," Freddie said. "Maybe when you touched it..."

John put his head in his hands. He didn't know how else to deal with it. Every time he thought he had an explanation as to why it couldn't possibly be him, he thought of another reason that it couldn't be anyone else.

"I think maybe you saved me on the stairs, too..." Roger said. "I'd swear on my life I was about to fall."

Brian crawled out of the chair, also kneeling in front of John. "It's... pretty likely, you know. But we could still be on the wrong track..."

John shook his head. "You remember what I told you about the fire? I wished I was someone else. That I wasn't... I remember thinking, just make this happen to someone else. I didn't want to die. I wanted to be someone else. And then I thought, 'you know, that's... that's awfully selfish.' So I wished we were all..."

"So you did _this?"_ Freddie asked.

John looked up. "I don't know! I guess? I didn't mean for this to happen! I didn't know it would... That _I_ would..."   
  
He couldn't make himself say it, only because he couldn't define what it was that he'd done. He remembered feeling exhausted just after he made the wish, and experiencing the distinct feeling that he wasn't alone. Other than that, he couldn't say what caused his thoughts to express themselves in such an unconventional manner.

"I hoped someone would figure out what happened," John said, "And we could go to them and get this all fixed. I was just... waiting. But it's me, and I don't know how to undo it. I don't know how I did it in the first place. I'm sorry, Roger. I don't know how to fix it."

John felt Roger's uncomfortable stare for a long time. He couldn't apologize enough, and he had no words of reassurance, because he couldn't fix it. For all he knew, undoing things was impossible, and they were all stuck as they were.

"No, I'm sorry, John. I..." Roger staggered to his feet, and took a few steps backward, nearly tripping on the coffee table. He looked pale, like he might faint, or be sick. "I just need to go sit down for a bit."

"C'mon, dear," Freddie said, taking Roger's shoulders and guiding him away, toward his own room. "We'll get you some tea. You're all right, John?"

"For now," John muttered, his voice almost devoid of emotion.


	8. We Didn't Start the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to come to terms with the spoiler from the last chapter! Roger has an idea. Roger's ideas are usually bad. We're not sure about this one yet.

John found that he couldn't stand for all the pain in his joints, nor would his pride allow him to ask Brian for help standing up. He'd gotten himself onto the floor, he ought to be able to get himself off it! He could almost feel the shards of his dignity flaking away, though, as the discomfort intensified, especially in his lower back. He was also starving; every once in a while, his stomach would protest, and John would grit his teeth and tell it, in no uncertain terms, to shut the hell up because he had other things to worry about.

Brian paced continuously, sometimes pausing to ask John how he was doing, and sometimes sitting back at the computer for a few seconds to search. He talked to himself in the way he did when he was trying to figure something out, and had delved so deeply into his own little world that he didn't even notice when John made halfhearted attempts to struggle to his feet. After a half hour, John only managed to scoot himself against the wall, which helped with the back issue, but not the hunger issue.

The irrational part of his mind wondered if he could eat drywall. At the very least, it would be filling.

The rational part wondered how he'd done this to himself. He was old. Actually old. No force in the world should have been able to do it except time, and yet, John figured out a way. Rubbing at his cheek again, he idly tried to find the edges of a mask that would end this awful practical joke, but all he found was the scratch from one cheekbone to his ear.

Worst of all, as John tried to come up with ways he couldn't possibly be responsible for the whole mess, he kept recalling certain weird, lucky happenstances that only occurred around him. For example, how lucky had it been that Roger had his wallet in his pocket the night of the fire, and hadn't thrown it on kitchen counter as he always did in the past? And in the hospital, John knew he somehow cleaned a _crack_ off Roger's glasses, but his apparently primitive brain wouldn't allow him to believe it at the time.

All his friends unhurt. None of them with damaging smoke inhalation. Not even a burn. All too convenient to be coincidence.

And the fatigue! He still wanted to sleep. John had been the last to wake up after the house burnt down, too. There was a definite correlation between the marginally strange and his state of consciousness, even following the smallest things. Now that he really thought about it, he could confirm that he felt just a little tired after everything he'd supposedly done.

And... He had no idea what to do. Every time he thought of a valid excuse to prove his innocence, he came up with an equally plausible explanation for his guilt.

Without meaning to, he swore loudly. Brian stopped pacing.

"Maybe -- Maybe Roger did it!" John rubbed his face. That scratchy white beard. "I mean, I'm doing things now, clearly. Of course. It's got to be me, but what if this is Roger's thing? Like, I have his temper, so I have his..."

He trailed off as Brian shook his head, retrieving the shirt from the back of the couch. "We went over this. You're the only one who knew about the safe."

"I could have... done it after we switched..." John muttered, though he knew how unlikely it was.

"We were all unconscious."

It was like the final nail in the coffin. A coffin that John currently occupied, alive, as he screamed and banged on the inside, crying for someone to let him out. Apparently his own visual was too much for him to bear, so instead of responding with words, he just sobbed.

He clenched his jaw to try to prevent himself from losing his composure entirely, but his willpower and his heart appeared to be at odds with each other. Tears were pouring out of his eyes now; all he could do was look up, shake his head, and offer Brian a look of abject confusion. He had no intention of making a big deal, least of all in front of one of his friends, but now that he'd started, he couldn't stop.

Brian couldn't hide his own confusion, or his pity. He looked away, either out of guilt for witnessing the breakdown, or embarrassment. John wasn't sure which was worse. Ultimately, Brian just asked, "John, why are you still on the floor?"

With his dignity in shambles, John had no reason to lie. "I can't get up, Bri. I've tried."

To his credit, Brian didn't laugh. In fact, it was quite the opposite. A deep scowl crossed his face as he lowered himself to the floor, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with John. "Why didn't you say anything? I coulda helped you up."

John used his sleeve to dry his eyes. He couldn't think of a good answer.

"I get it," Brian said. "I don't ever want you guys to see it when I cry."

When John looked over at him, he smiled. "I do. A lot," Brian said with a shrug. "And I'm always... I guess I'm always embarrassed. I shouldn't be. Sometimes things get too much, yeah? And I don't always have a reason, but that's just something I have to deal with. You, though? I think you've got a great excuse."

Brian pulled his knees up, resting his elbows on them. From this angle, John could see an ugly bruise spreading across his forearm from where he'd smacked it against the coffee table. It looked painful.

For the first time, it occurred to John that he could possibly do something about it, too. The thought was an uncomfortable one - an admission that his days of normalcy were over, and he could do things that the average human couldn't. Maybe if he practiced, though, he could figure out how to un-age himself. And if he could do that, he could switch them all back to their proper selves.

But his nerves were frayed. His apathy couldn't possibly have been worse. All John wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep, forever, if possible. He didn't want to try using this power he had, because using it would be an admission that he had it, and that scared him more than anything.

"Can I see your arm?" he made himself say. "The sore one."

Brian held it out. John turned it over, poking at the bruise. After everything he'd done so far, he knew he probably didn't have to touch it to make something happen. Still, the contact helped him concentrate, now that he was trying to do something on purpose. "I'm not sure what to do," he admitted.

"It's all right," Brian said. He tried to take his arm back, but John stubbornly held onto it, shaking his head. Brian chuckled. "There's just no precedent for this. So if you don't know how to do it... It's all right. First of all, it makes no sense. Second, there's no one you can ask for guidance, is there?"

"No," John said. He closed his eyes.

He pictured the tissue under the bruise. He imagined it knitting itself back together, leaving brownish-pink skin behind with no sign of damage. He pictured himself as a healer.

"Anything?" Brian asked.

John opened his eyes. The bruise was still there.

And the whole time, the tears continued falling. He dried his eyes again, glaring hatefully at the blue-purple skin. He dug his fingers into it, frustrated; Brian hissed and pulled his arm away.

"Sorry," John muttered. "What use is it if I can't use it when I mean to use it?"

Brian rubbed his arm, pressing his lips together. "Can I ask you something? Why did you do this to yourself?"

"You think I _meant to?"_ John asked. Incredulous, he grabbed Brian's arm again, staring at the injury. Willing it away.

"No, of course not. What I meant was, what made this happen? There must have been a reason for it. Something you did, or something you thought."

"I dunno." John dragged the back of his hand across his eyes, for all the good it did. "Freddie said it. And Roger said it. And I just..." He shook his head. "Maybe I thought they'd be happy if I was old. No, that's not it. I thought... I thought it'd serve them right. Then they'd feel bad, and I'd... I'd..."

"You'd feel vindicated," Brian said. "Do you?"

"No. I was mad. Maybe I would have forgot about it in the morning if this hadn't happened. I guess I just didn't realize what they thought of me."

Maybe, in some twisted way, he thought it was helping. That he needed to be what they expected him to be. That he needed to fit their idea of him. He knew that was ridiculous _now,_ since he'd had plenty of time to sleep on it - literally. Maybe feeling sorry for himself was the answer. Or maybe he just felt too much empathy for other people.

The bruise started to fade around the edges. John's eyes widened as he stared, too afraid to say anything for fear that it would stop healing itself. Brian, too, seemed to be holding his breath as the black-and-blue mark disappeared altogether.

"What'd you do?" Brian asked, clearly awed.

"I have no idea," John replied.

"C'mon!" Brian said. He jumped to his knees, settling in front of John and taking his hands. "You _did it._ What were you thinking about?"

John shook his head, unable to speak, caught somewhere between amazement and revulsion. If he had any doubts about whether or not all this was his fault, they were gone now, and he was afraid. Because if he could just _think things_ and have them happen, what had stopped him from launching an unexplainable, unnatural, metaphysical attack on Freddie back when they fought? "I could have killed him," John muttered.

"Killed? Killed who?" Brian asked.

"Freddie."

Brian let go of John's hands, sitting back on his ankles. "No, if you could have, you would have."

That didn't make John feel better. He shivered, his unease coagulating in his stomach and roiling around in a very uncomfortable manner. He grappled for the old hotel trash can next to the couch and threw up in it, only just managing to avoid vomiting on himself, too. Not sure whether or not he was finished being sick, he hugged the can to his chest.

"Oh, John," Brian said, obviously irritated, but sympathetic. He pried the bucket out of John's hands. "You know what I meant! If you had the capability of doing something horrible without meaning to, you would have! But you didn't. So it can't be something you just _will_ to happen!"

Brian took the garbage can away, disappearing into the bathroom.

He was right, though. Everything he'd done had been _helpful_ in some manner. Fixing Freddie's ankle, finding the wallet, preventing his room from burning down... Among other things. Even becoming old was meant to be helpful, in a twisted, illogical way.

The tub faucet ran. Brian uttered a disgusted, unintelligible diatribe.

John narrowed his eyes, staring at the wall. It felt like he stood on the threshold of understanding, though he couldn't quite focus on the intricacies. He almost didn't want to; he could just be an ignorant battery of benevolence that made peoples' lives better without meaning to. If he couldn't do harm, then why delve further into the mysteries of this ability? On the other hand, if he didn't figure out how to control it - what the trigger was, and how to invoke it - he'd never get himself and his bandmates back to their own bodies. And Roger would be old forever.

He'd be old forever.

Brian returned, setting the bucket in John's lap, and sitting down next to him again.

"I help people," John said.

"Yeah, I kinda think so, too," Brian replied.

"I don't know how to make it work, though."

"You'll get to it." Brian patted him on the back, encouragingly. "Figuring out what you can do is a good first step, don't you think? And we'll learn more. _You'll_ learn more."

John didn't want to have to learn more. What he wanted was for everything to go back to how it was. He didn't want this ability, and he didn't want anyone else to have it either. It didn't make sense... Didn't mesh with his understanding of the world. No one should be able to heal with a touch, or be a human GPS, or prevent someone from falling down a flight of stairs with some sort of warped telekinesis. He just wanted to be John Deacon, not some enigma for others to ponder over. Of course, he supposed that if he had to be able to do _something,_ he preferred helping over hurting. The only thing that didn't fit with the pattern was the fire.

Oh.

_The fire._

"John?" Brian asked. "You've got that look in your eyes."

"Brian, I caused the fire."

It had to be true, didn't it? To John at least, it seemed so excruciatingly plausible that he had no doubt at all. If he could do things, and the fire was a thing that happened, John himself must have caused it.

"You didn't mean to," Brian said awkwardly. John heard the blame somewhere deep within his voice, though. He _knew it._

"It doesn't _matter_ if I meant to! All our stuff! And the house! Freddie's cats!" His jaw trembled, his throat closing up as he lost the fight entirely. He felt the edges of a panic attack creeping into his consciousness, even though he wasn't in his own body. He knew the signs - the rapid thoughts, the increased heart rate, the uncomfortable feeling of being detached...

The chest pain was new.

Grimacing, he pressed his hand against his sternum, trying to will the pain away.

"John, don't you have a fucking heart attack!" Brian exclaimed, almost panicked. He jumped up, kneeling in front of John again, taking both his shoulders and giving him a good shake. "That's an order!"

John shook his head, his breathing too rapid to formulate much of a response.   
  
"No?!"

"M'okay--" He managed. "Just... Just..."

"Clearly it was an accident," Brian said. "A bad accident, but... We were all asleep! You, too! Maybe you didn't even cause it."

"Then what did?" John's voice felt choked, his throat uncooperative. He couldn't say more than a handful of words without losing his breath. "Think about it! Those people you found online. The other ones that can do stuff. What's the thing we all have in common, Bri? The fires! I could... I could have..."

"But you got us all out! John, you got us out!"

"It doesn't matter! If I did it, then I don't deserve to--"

"Whoa, _whoa!"_ Brian shook him again. Surprised, John looked up into his dark eyes. "You have to be careful," Brian went on. "If you're able to make things happen, you can't go wishing yourself away, or saying you deserve things that you don't, okay? You deserve to be right here, with us, and I mean that."

John nodded. He was trembling now. Every few seconds, his entire body would shake with the onslaught of adrenaline and fear. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he'd hurt even one of them. Even now, he could barely fathom living with himself, having destroyed their lives so thoroughly. And he didn't even know if he could begin to fix things.

"Look at me," Brian said. John did. "No more wishing weird stuff on yourself. And no heart attacks. You stop that, right now. You can't figure this out if you're gone."

John let out a bark of hysterical laughter. Brian startled at the sudden noise.

"I can't do this," John said. "This isn't me. I don't want it."

Brian stood, brushing the fingers of both hands through his short-cropped hair. "I know."

"And I'm so tired. I just want to sleep."

Brian nodded. He turned, holding out both his arms. John almost snapped at him again, annoyed at the offer of help, and devastated that he needed it. But he had no energy left to give for anger, and he couldn't fall asleep on the floor.   
  
"Come on," Brian said. "Let me help you."

John took his hands. With some difficulty and a lot of pain, he managed to get to his feet.

His knees were shaking, though; his eyes heavy. His chest still hurt. He tried to suggest that maybe he _should_ go to the hospital, but Brian was fluffing the pillows on the couch, and holding the blanket, gesturing to the warm cushions. John collapsed onto them as his legs refused to cooperate, and Brian pulled the scratchy blanket over him. John was drifting off before he even had the chance to mutter a thank you.  
  


\---

  
Freddie honestly had no idea what to do. Roger seemed on the verge of tears again, his stare blank and lifeless as he sat on the edge of his bed. Every once in a while, he'd say something along the lines of just needing a another minute, or that he'd be fine in a little while. An hour later, Roger was still out of sorts.

And Freddie had to say something. "Look, maybe if I dye the grey out? Then a little makeup around his eyes. A bit of contouring, and he'd look fabulous, don't you think?"

Roger didn't move for several seconds. Even after that, all he did was shake his head.

If Roger didn't want to talk, Freddie couldn't make him, but all this silence was making him restless. He had to fill it somehow. "Yeah, you're right. It's a horrible idea. Might make the poor guy feel worse. Changing him around and whatnot." Freddie checked to see if Roger looked like he might say something to that. He didn't. "Uh, maybe we could..." Freddie paused, scratching his head. "Take... him... to a playground or something. You know, put him on the swings, make him feel young again."

Roger tilted his head a bit, eyes narrowing slightly. It was more of a reaction than he'd given thus far.  
  
Encouraged, Freddie ventured, "or push him down the slide."

"No, not that," Roger said. "He could break something if he lands badly. Like both hips, and I like my hips. They help me sit."

Freddie almost couldn't hide his excitement over getting Roger to respond. Still, gritting his teeth and steeling himself, he managed to keep his voice calm. Ish. "So it's a good idea?"

Roger tapped his chin, getting to his feet. "Not that, exactly, no. But that does make me think a bit."

"As long as you stop staring at the wall." 

Roger met his eyes, the eerie melancholy in them making Freddie almost uncomfortable. Afraid he might have said something to upset his friend, Freddie took a step back and stared at the floor, his heart already starting to beat faster, and quite uncomfortably. He found himself hoping that Roger wouldn't yell. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Sometimes it just hits me," Roger said, his voice gentle. "And staring at nothing? It's all I had the energy to do. You know why."

"'Cuz you're Brian."

"And I'm guessing you won't look at me right now 'cuz you're John."

Freddie forced himself to look up, and while he avoided Roger's eyes, he did manage to settle his gaze on Roger's cheek. Close enough.

Roger snorted a humorless laugh. A grunt, really. "We have to fix this before I throw myself off a bridge."

Panicked, Freddie asked, "You don't mean that?"

Roger didn't answer for a long time. In fact, he didn't move at all, his eyes fixed on the grain of the wood on his dresser. His fingers traced the detail once, twice, then again. "I don't know. I don't think so? Sometimes I picture it, though, and then I feel bad for all the times I told Brian to just snap out of it."

"You think Brian thinks about... You know?"

Roger nodded. "But I don't think he'd ever tell us. Because you and me? We're idiots."

Freddie could agree with that, at least in part. He still couldn't make himself get it, though he supposed there must be something to it if Roger felt the same way Brian often did.

"And John's usually got these... cues, I guess," Roger said, pacing toward the door. "I know when I've gone too far -- when I've said too much -- because he just has this way about him. But I didn't see it, so I thought he was okay. Look what I did to him, Fred!"

"Hey, it wasn't just you!" Freddie said. "I seem to remember starting it in the first place!"

Roger shook his head. "It doesn't matter, does it? If we could keep our mouths shut once in a while, he'd be fine."

"Maybe."   
  
"And how do you think John's going to deal with all this? Finding out he caused it all?" Roger looked over his shoulder. Freddie could see his eyes were wet.

"Badly."

Roger paced back, dropping onto the bed and putting his head in his hands. He sniffled; obviously embarrassed, he tried to turn away.

Freddie sat down next to him, unable to think of any words of comfort. Instead, he prompted, "You said you had an idea, darling."

Roger sniffled again, rubbing his nose. He nodded. "Yeah, but I... I think I need another minute, or two."

Freddie leaned on his shoulder. "You take all the time you need."  
  


\---

  
The deep sadness finally abated. It wasn't by anything Roger did... His mood just shifted, slowly, back toward neutral. It left him feeling tired, which, in turn, caused him to doze as he leaned against Freddie's shoulder. Every once in a while, consciousness would plague him with the thought that his tears were foolish and unwelcome. Other people in the world had it worse than he did, so he needed to toughen up. _Be a man,_ he scolded himself.

But he'd never say that to Brian. So why was he being so hard on himself?

He knew what happiness should feel like, so he thought of all the things he was glad of, to try to bring his mood around. Iced coffee was high on the list. In fact, his brain seemed to focus on it to the point where he couldn't come up with anything else. Then, he remembered go-karting. Which led to his love of cars. Music! How could he forget music? Keeping time felt so rewarding, and Roger was so good at it.

Listening to great music while driving way faster than the speed limit. No feeling was better.

Eventually, Roger sat up, reached for Freddie's sleeve, and wiped his nose on it.

"Lovely," Freddie grumbled. "Are you okay?"

"For now," Roger said, and meant it. He still couldn't fathom how Brian dealt with the ups and downs while managing to seem so stable to the outside world. "C'mon," he added. "We'll go see how John's doing, now that I'm not making a bloody scene."  


They found John slumped against the arm of the couch, sound asleep again. Felicia was curled in his lap, under one arm, purring loudly. Brian kept watch from the chair on the other side of the coffee table.

"How's he doing?" Roger asked.

"Not great," Brian replied, looking around the back of the chair. "But at least he's asleep. You look like hell."

Roger fumbled for an excuse, but considering the fact that his eyes still stung and all his limbs felt heavy, he couldn't come up with anything plausible. Besides, out of all the people in the world, Brian would understand most readily. "Er... I had a bit of a cry, I guess. It's okay, though, I think. Besides, it's selfish, isn't it? Me carrying on, with all John's going through."

At the mention of his name, John grumbled something under his breath and pulled the blanket over his head.

"I feel that way sometimes," Brian admitted. "If it helps, though, I don't think it's selfish at all. Sometimes, there's just nothing you can do about it."

Roger sat down at John's feet, pulling the end of the blanket over him, while Freddie sat on the edge of the coffee table. For a while, the only sounds were John's soft snores. Being near the others did make Roger feel a lot better, though he couldn't quite shake the _heavy_ feeling. "Bri, I hate the fact that I'll be giving this back to you eventually."

"You've said." Brian smiled, leaning forward in the chair. "It's all right, Rog. I've been dealing with it for years. I'm used to it."

"Can't you take drugs or something?" Freddie asked. "They do that, don't they?"

Brian nodded, looking at his feet. "I did, for a while. I didn't like the way they made me feel... Kinda dull, I guess. But Roger, if you want to, I bet we could call my doc n' say we lost 'em in the fire."

It was a decision Roger never thought he'd have to make, considering he had no idea how depression worked. He'd always been able to keep a good mood, unless he was particularly angry. Or drunk. Or drunk _and_ angry. And on one hand, it was worth a shot. On the other, he'd become what Brian described as "dull." After all the emotional turmoil he'd been through this week, he wasn't sure he wanted to feel that, too. "We're close to figuring this out, aren't we? I can make it a few more days. Or a week."

"A month?" Freddie asked.  
  
"I'll have to think about it."

Brian chuckled. "Well, for what it's worth, I think you're handling it pretty well. I never talked to you guys about any of it. Maybe I should have."

That did make Roger feel a little better. "Look," he said. "I have an idea. Or, rather, it was kind of Freddie's idea, and I just... Kind of stole it."

"That's all right, dear," Freddie said. "I wasn't so sure pushing John down a slide would have done much good."

Brian narrowed his eyes. "A slide?"

"No, none of that. But I do have an idea," Roger said. "If we can get John to wake up long enough for it."


	9. Game On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger executes his genius (??????) idea with dinner and gaming session. Also, I believe in recycling OCs.

"The last guy was... okay..." Roger tried to hold back a laugh out of respect, but then Freddie let out a hearty guffaw, then Brian joined in, and soon, they were all laughing. Even John offered a quizzical smile as Roger smacked the table. "Who'm I kiddin'? He couldn't play to save his life, could he?"

"Maybe _Mary Had a Little Lamb,"_ Freddie suggested.

"On bass?" Brian asked.

"Well, no, not on bass. He'd have to borrow the piano, I suppose," Freddie said, taking another sip from a nearly-empty beer glass. "And we'd have to take most of the keys away."

"Exactly," Roger said. "After him, we were _done._ We'd seen _ten_ already, and none of them stood out. Some of them were downright horrible. And besides, we were hungry, so we were ready to go get pizza..."

"And make our decision," Brian added. "We had a gig to play, and no bass player."

Freddie nodded, flagging down the waitress for another round. "So whether our pick was terrible or not, we just wanted to play. That's it. We were all in it for the music."

"And the _girls,_ Fred! Well, we thought you were, then." Roger shrugged. "Turned out a little differently, didn't it?"

Brian snickered, clearly buzzed already. "Then John came in."

John actually smiled a bit at his grand introduction. After a couple beers, he didn't look quite as terrified as before. In fact, Roger wondered if he even looked a little _brighter._ Getting him out of the hotel had been a challenge, and he still stuck to the shadows, snuggled back in the corner of the booth, ducking his head whenever their waitress came around. But at least he seemed to be relaxing and enjoying himself, as engrossed in the story as he was. "Then?" He prompted.

"Well, you _know,_ darling! You were there!" Freddie leaned over, bumping John's shoulder.

John gave him a gentle shove, weary eyes smiling. Maybe his wrinkles didn't seem quite so deep anymore. Maybe they were disappearing. Or maybe the poor, piss-yellow lighting in the hole-in-the-wall restaurant just obscured John's features, and Roger was just grasping at straws.

"I want to hear you guys tell it," John said.

"Fine, fine," Brian said. "You weren't scheduled, so we were already annoyed. But you'd seen the flier. I wanted to give you a chance--"

"You didn't, you buffoon. You absolute liar." Freddie rolled his eyes. "He said, and I quote, 'let's let him play and get him the hell out of here.'"

"He quotes. Like he even remembers what he did yesterday?" Brian crossed his arms. "Okay, so maybe I was a little irritated. Sure. I guess that's what led to the piece we picked for you to play..."

"It's not what we told you to play. It's what you _did."_ Roger couldn't stop giggling, though he couldn't tell whether the beer or the memory made him so giddy. "It was so perfect."

The waitress came back with another four beers. John waved his away. "I've got to drive these idiots home," he said.

"Idiots, he calls us," Freddie said.

"Well we were, considering we almost lost the greatest bassist on the whole planet," Roger said. He had no qualms about drinking another. Neither did Brian or Freddie. "All 'cuz we wanted pizza."

"I don't know about the _greatest,"_ John mumbled.

"See, we wanted to get rid of you. Nothing personal, dear," Freddie said. "We were just tired. So we gave you something we knew no one could play. Not at the level we were hoping to audition, at any rate."

"The flier did say 'amateurs with promise.'" Roger raised his glass, mock-toasting the others.

"You gave is this _look."_ Brian narrowed his eyes, holding up his hands, fingers splayed like claws. "Just... dripping with disdain. Then you--"

Roger interrupted, shouting over him. "You played it with your middle finger! The whole thing!"

"An impossible piece, darling," Freddie said. "Difficult for someone using all their resources, and you flipped us off with it. Then you were going to _leave."_

John smiled shyly, rubbing his thinning hair. "Well, after all I went through to get there... It wasn't exactly a short ride. And if it wasn't for Brian..."

"Yes, our peacekeeper." Freddie draped his arm over Brian's shoulder. "We'd still be searching. Even after all these years, I suppose."

"You'd have found someone," John said. "Maybe I'd be back home, actually using my certification for something besides fixing your amps all the time."

"Yes, your expertise was a bonus," Freddie said, tapping his chin. "Also, you were quiet, if a bit temperamental. In any case, I knew right off that you wouldn't upstage my glorious, beautiful face..."

Roger threw a fry at him.

John's mood shifted, just slightly, a quiet sigh escaping. "You also wouldn't be in this predicament." He looked at Freddie - into his own face - staring just long enough to cause Freddie to avert his eyes uncomfortably. "If I'd left that night, you'd just be some band, and I'd..."

"You'd be going through this without the best friends you could ever have," Freddie said. "And that just wouldn't do. Look, I'm not one to believe fate controls us, darling, but I think you met us for a reason. And I think we're all here in this restaurant right now, for a reason."

As touching as the sentiment was, Roger felt the good mood slipping through his fingers. He didn't want everyone to cry and make a Friends Forever collage, for crying out loud! He wanted them all drunk and rowdy! Ready to kick some ass! He had to do something, and quickly, or any progress he might have made would fly right out the window and into the night, never to be seen again. Time to break out the big guns. The ultimate party pastime. Running around. Being stupid. Cranking the music up to _eleven._ All these things combined created something powerful. Mighty.

Roger stood up, palms down on the table, towering over the others. "Gentlemen," he said. "It's time."

"No more beer for Rog," Freddie said, tone flat. "Clearly he's had plenty."

"I'm not _that_ much of a lightweight," Brian protested.   
  
"Guys!" Roger said, voice rising above the restaurant's noisy din. As the patrons around their table fell into a startled hush, Roger lowered his voice, and leaned in. The others did likewise, huddling under the dim, stained-glass lampshade. "Listen. I saw the place when we were at ol' KC's Electronics, getting the computer. Just around the corner, in the back lot. It's perfect."

He could make a dozen arguments for it. A _dozen_ dozen. If they were going to treat John like one of the guys - if they were going to try to make him feel young again - they were going to have to get him off his ass. Clearly, sitting at a booth in some seedy restaurant with sticky tables and greasy food wasn't cutting it. Roger grinned, showing his teeth in a triumphant smile. "We're gonna play laser tag."

Brian arched his eyebrows. "Did you just say..."

"He did," Freddie said.

As Roger stared down at them, his resolve slowly crumbling, Brian and Freddie shared an uncomfortable glance. None of them wanted to insinuate that John shouldn't play due to his apparent age, even if he wasn't old in spirit. At the same time, there existed a very real danger that their elderly friend could seriously hurt himself. Without a gentle way to phrase their concerns, they all thought of the same thing at the same time. As one, they all turned to look at John.

Surprising everyone, John said, "Let's do it."  
  


\---

  
A light flickered outside the corrugated metal monstrosity in the electronics store's back lot. The faded A-frame sign in the parking lot read "KC's LAZZER TAG." At some point, someone had crossed out the misspelling and wrote "Laser" in tiny red letters above it.

There was only one other car in the lot besides John's rental, and it had a vanity plate on the front bumper that said LAZRGOD.

"Well, this should be exciting," Roger said.

"I'm not even sure this is up to code." Brian gave the A-frame a gentle shove. It wobbled on its legs before sliding partially into a divot.

"Oh, it's fine," Roger said. "Look, it's a sturdy metal building. If it crashes down on top of us, we'll be dead _straight away._ We won't even feel a thing."

While the others wandered ahead and argued Roger's logic, John hung back a little, pulling the wallet out of his pocket for at least the tenth time that night. He opened it to Roger's license. Instead of the young, smug, blue-eyed grin from before, the photo had taken on John's elderly appearance, right down to the haggard, worried expression he now wore. It was as if the piece of plastic sensed his concern over how he'd be able to explain the discrepancy to a police officer, and changed itself to be helpful.

No one was meant to be able to shift reality. While the others worried over his brittle bones and weak heart, John worried that he'd accidentally hurt one of them with a stray thought.

What if he killed one of them?

"You coming, John?" Brian asked, holding the door open.

"Yeah, just a sec..."   
  
He could still back out. He could fake chest pain! Hell, if he wanted to, John could probably even manifest _real_ chest pain. If he ended this before it began, he couldn't hurt any of them, could he? Then again, if he made himself sick and hid in the hospital for a few weeks, he'd be no closer to fixing their problem.

He could learn to control this.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he followed Brian into the old warehouse.

In stark contrast to the shabby exterior, the inside held promise and polish, even in the lobby. Though painted mostly in dark blacks and blues, neon stars and planets decorated the walls, with random splatters of paint between.  They all glowed under blacklights, giving the entire space a galactic aura.

Even the counter looked like a pile of moon rocks, with individual stones carved out of resin and dusted with a soft, shimmering green. Beneath its glass top, an assortment of themed t-shirts and other bright souvenirs tempted patrons with cartoonish drawings and logos.

A stairway behind the counter led up into a glass box - possibly for observation, or refereeing, or both. Like the walls, the glass was decorated with stars, planets, rocket ships, and even a few aliens. Next to the stairway, on the ground level, was an electric blue door with 'ARENA' stenciled onto it in blinding orange.

On the counter - next to a completely mundane cash register - napped a young man, whose numerous tattoos glowed ultraviolet. His head rested on the glass; the rest of his body draped down lazily into a beat-up old chair. He was drooling.

"Should we wake him?" Roger whispered.

"Well, I'd think so," Brian replied, gently giving the guy's arm a poke.

He sat up with a start. "THERE'S NO MONEY IN THE REGISTER!" he barked.

As the guys jumped back, the young man attempted to focus, blinking in confusion at the four people at his counter. His shoulders relaxed as he realized where he was.

Freddie muttered something about a false alarm, lowering his fists as if he'd been ready to fight.

That's about when Brian's eyes widened, and he quickly shuffled away from the counter, standing in the back next to John. He was blushing bright enough that the red on his cheeks stood out, even in the dark.

John smiled. A tiny breath of laughter escaped, even though he tried to hold it in. Brian elbowed him sharply.

"Sorry," the clerk said, oblivious. He grimaced, using his shirt to mop up the puddle of drool on the glass. "My old job wasn't in a great area. I think..." He scratched his head, pushing blond-streaked hair out of his dark eyes. "I think I mighta' been dreamin' about it."

His nametag said 'MILES.'

"We're actually here to play a couple games," Roger said. "Er... There doesn't seem to be anyone else here. I wasn't even sure you were open."

"Oh, yeah, it's... Well, my uncle--he owns the... The... You know. Over there?" He gestured in the direction of the electronics store, mumbling something about computers and internets in a Cockney accent that was hard to understand. "We don't get much business. He says, 'you know, you shouldn'ter opened a place in the middle o' nowhere, kid,' and I say 'well if your store wasn't in the middle o' nowhere, maybe I wouldn'ta!"

"It's not exactly a tourist trap, is it?" Roger asked.

"No, it aren't," Miles said, rubbing his head. "Y'know, you all look familiar."

Freddie practically wiggled with excitement. "Perhaps you've heard us on the local station. We're a bit popular in this area, you know. This area, and... Hopefully a little farther... Out..."

Miles still puzzled over their identity, eventually shaking his head. "Any'ow, on a good night we have exactly zero customers, so _this_ is a great night, with three o' you n' all."

They looked at each other, then back at Miles. Brian said, "There's four of us."

"What, you don't mean grandpa's gonna play?"

Without meaning to, John clenched his hands into fists, his nails digging painfully into his palms. He felt that tell-tale flash of anger behind his eyes, though Freddie thankfully stepped between him and Miles, giving the former a delicate push away from the counter. As John recovered from the stab of anger, Roger draped an arm over his shoulder.

"Grandpa," John growled softly, through his teeth.

Roger gave him a soothing pat on the back.

"Well of course he is!" Freddie said. "It's actually why we're here. Why, it's... It's his birthday."

It was not.

"You okay?" Roger muttered, low enough so the others couldn't hear. John relaxed, nodding stiffly.

He'd just about forgotten, too. That was the rub - Roger's stupid plan almost worked. The weariness set in again with the reminder.

"Well, all right, but take a look at the sign." Miles pointed to a panel on the wall, above what looked to be an old-fashioned pirate's treasure chest. Of special interest was the part mentioning that KC'S LAZZER TAG - again, with 'LAZZER' crossed out and re-written correctly above the misspelling - was not responsible for any injury that might occur as a result of rough-housing, tomfoolery, or 'advanced age.' It also recommended that those who were pregnant, elderly, or had other medical issues should probably reconsider playing.

"Oh, John's not _old,_ dear," Freddie said. "He's been in the sun a bit too long, is all."

"Right," Miles said, giving John quite the dubious once-over. "Anyhow, let's get you boys kitted up."

When Miles stepped around them to get to the treasure chest, his gaze lingered on Brian's arms for just a few extra seconds. Brian lip twitched upward in a smile that wasn't entirely uncomfortable, and may have even been _interested._ The fact that Freddie seemed completely oblivious amused John the most.

Miles winked at Brian, who made quite the sudden show of studying his own shoes.

Looking over his shoulder, John met Roger's eyes and offered a playful nod toward the two of them. Roger offered a knowing nod, waggling his eyebrows. They'd have to tease Brian about it later, as was their duty.

"Now, these are state-of-the-art," Miles said, opening the chest to reveal a row of vests inside. "Brand new, practically. Nothin' like 'em. See, if you shut 'em off, it sends a signal to control, n' we can disqualify ya. So don't shut 'em off. Now, we'll set'cha each up with a color... Who wants purple?"

Roger raised his hand, dancing about a little. Miles passed the vest over.

"People shut them off?" John asked.

Miles turned the second vest on, and it lit up green. John held out his hand for it, investigating the molded plastic on the back.

One door was screwed shut and inaccessible, but in general, the thing wasn't particularly secure - at least, not for a state-of-the-art piece of equipment. It held some interest for John, who would have been happier taking it apart and digging around inside the electronics than playing laser tag.

Miles reached for the vest, turned it around, and draped it over John's shoulders. "You sure are interested in this stuff, gramps. Don't go thinkin' you'll get an easy win that way, though. Everyone's gotta play fair."

John narrowed his eyes, though with his mind elsewhere - already forming a picture of what the innards of the vest must look like - he was too distracted to be angry. Still, he must have looked intimidating enough for Miles to step away, holding up one hand.

"Kidding!" Miles said. "Kidding, really. Don't... uh... hurt me or nothin'. Look, here's a blue vest... and yellow... Ah, what'd you say your name was?"

"I didn't," Brian said shyly. "It's..." He glanced toward the others. Roger shook his head.

Brian seemed at a loss - almost disappointed - when he said, "It's Freddie."

A light flashed off the neon blue surface of the arena door, drawing John's attention away from Brian's awkward flirting.

He still had his doubts; after all, he'd only begun to figure out how his ability worked, and he still worried that he might hurt the others by accident. Even if he and Brian both agreed that what John could do seemed mostly helpful, apparently John could twist his power to do things that weren't traditionally beneficial. Case in point - here he stood, among his own peers, aged to the point of being nearly unrecognizable.

Someone his own age was calling him 'grandpa.'

It wasn't too late to back out.

"Gramps? You okay?" Miles held out a futuristic-looking weapon, which also glowed green along its spine, matching John's vest.

He could do this. He could control it. The others would be fine.

John nodded.  
  


\---

  
Unfortunately for everyone, Roger's competitive nature took over the moment he stepped foot into the arena. He couldn't help it, really. He had to be the best at everything - he had to at _least_ win one game and prove his prowess to the others. To that end, he took stock of the gameboard as soon as he could get a good look at it.

The arena's space was dominated by partitions of varying types and sizes. Nothing low enough to trip over, but some of the walls were low enough that you'd have to crouch down to hide behind them. They were all bright enough that they glowed in the blacklight, which was, itself, broken up by wandering spotlights and strobes.   
  
The floor had been stripped down to the cement, which was painted with cobblestone paths and arrows and signs that all glowed in the dark. Roger had no intention of staying on the marked roads, though he felt the others just might.

Their loss. His opportunity.

He took note of places he could fit behind. With Brian's skinnier frame, he could easily squeeze between the outer wall and a decorative panel. Using this to his advantage, he scored his first hit on Freddie.

As Freddie spun around to search for his assailant, he spit out some hilarious kid-unfriendly dialogue, so Roger shot him again.

"Language!" Roger trilled, making his escape before Freddie could wise up and find him.

He slid between a wall carved to look like a rocky outcropping and another flat, metal partition. With the lack of light between the two obstacles, Freddie failed to see Roger as he stomped by in a furious huff.

Roger could have given chase, had his primary target been Freddie. With the poor boy carrying around John's brand of brash temper, Roger easily could have scored twenty hits on him in a row. But no - Roger had a different target. A better target. If he wanted to win, he had to take out the weakest link first.

The logical part of his mind cautioned him that mercilessly decimating John could be wildly discouraging for the poor, elderly bloke.

Then again, Roger so seldom listened to logic from anyone, including himself.

Loud pop music blared through the speakers, covering Roger's footfalls as he sidled out from his shelter. Looking both ways, he advanced from cover to cover. Despite his bright purple vest announcing his position like a beacon, he wasn't worried because he was so very, very awesome.

He ducked behind a fake tree. Too late, Roger realized it was constructed of paper mache, and also hollow, so it made quite the thump when he ran into it. Fortunately, the thump did nothing to alert Brian - who meandered past Roger right out in the open. Leisurely aiming his purple-trimmed laser, Roger lined up the shot and took it.

Unlike Freddie, Brian didn't stick around.

"Smart. Very smart," Roger said.

He waited a couple seconds, trying to listen for the others under the _thump-thump-thump_ of the music. He couldn't detect anyone, nor see the yellow of Brian's vest or the blue of Freddie's. Cautiously, he took to the path. No sooner had he stepped out of his hiding spot, though, did his vest register a hit, briefly blinking red.

He had two seconds to escape, though he did throw a glare over his shoulder at Brian, smiling triumphantly from his shield.

Right. At least now Roger knew who he dealt with. One brash and careless, the other wily and calculating. Both were dangerous.   
  
Roger could easily employ a camping technique he often used in real-time strategy games. His rivals hated when he found their spawn point and build a nest just outside it - but, hey. It wasn't cheating, which made it a perfectly valid tactic.   
  
It also made Roger's job a whole lot easier.

He just had to find John's home base, and hope his assumption that John would play careful and stay nearby panned out.

The bases sat nestled in the corners of the arena. Squat buildings, each with a couple benches within to accommodate full teams of ten. With John's condition, it stood to reason that he wouldn't wander too far. After passing the yellow room, Roger found the one that was painted green.

Somewhere above the music, Roger heard someone's vest squawk out a hit; Freddie swore loudly again. Brian laughed.   
  
Good, they were some distance away. Perfect.

John would likely assume that the others would give him a bit of a free pass, allowing him to have fun at his leisure. Having fun, though, didn't necessarily mean winning the game.

Roger's assumptions turned out to be accurate. John at least had the presence to hide, though he couldn't have been ten feet from where he started. He rested one knee against a low partition while he watched for the others, waiting to pick them off from the relative safety of his home base.

Roger couldn't suppress a bit of a shudder, though, as he saw the blacklight reflecting purple from John's white hair. It drew a bit of a stark reminder as to why they were playing laser tag in the first place. For a moment, Roger almost decided to back off and let John have his slow, methodical game.

Then Roger remembered he was an arse at the best of times.  
  
He fired.

John disappeared, but only for a moment. He toddled along as fast as he could go. Roger caught up and scored another point. Easy.

John gave him a _look._ An angry look, with Roger's own face! The nerve! Roger shot him again!

"I'm trying to be careful, you idiot," John snapped.

Roger shot him again.

Realizing that he couldn't appeal to Roger's absent better half, John came to the realization that he had a weapon of his own, and fired back.  
  
"There ya go!" Roger giggled madly, making a quick escape before John could catch up to see where he'd fled.

It did occur to Roger that John's 'being careful' might be a warning. An indication that he didn't quite have his alien superpowers under control. Throwing caution to the wind, though, Roger snuck into John's own home base and hunkered down in the narrow space between the floor and the window.

To John's credit and Roger's surprise, it took a few minutes before John backtracked, returning to his base to regroup. Roger peered above the window ledge, snickering like a damn hyena, as he lined up another shot and scored again. Confused, John attempted to hide, albeit in an area where Roger could still reach him. Roger scored again, then again.

In an amazing stroke of luck, John retreated directly into his own home base.

Surprised by the sudden purple flash of Roger's vest, John backpedaled, nearly stumbling over a bench. No completely heartless, Roger reached out to steady him.

"Thank--" John started.

And was interrupted when Roger fired yet another shot at point-blank range.

"You fucking _termite,"_ John swore.

As Roger scrambled away - and his vest registered a hit - he did wonder for a moment if John intended to turn him into a termite. He didn't feel particularly buggy, though as he settled in a new hiding spot, he did check for extra legs.

He felt okay.

His nerves did cause him to sit down for a rest, though. Some part of his mind still urged him to give John a break - that the poor guy had little control over his powers and what he did to other people. While Roger didn't normally dwell on things, he felt the insult was crafted very specifically and precisely. "If I wake up in the morning and I'm a bug, I'm holding you responsible, Deacon!"

"I hope you are!"

It sounded flippant enough. Probably a good sign.

Having given away his position, Roger had to move on. As he crawled along the floor, he tried to count up his hits, but found that he really had no idea of the total. At least six. Maybe ten. Somewhere in that range. Beyond that, Freddie and Brian probably also had a couple points apiece - a total Roger couldn't even hope to estimate from the other side of the maze.

With time ticking by, Roger had to eliminate at least one of them, and John was such an easy target.

"Where'd you go, you son-of-a-mule?" John muttered. As he crept along Roger's partition, Roger scuttled around to the other side, holding in a laugh.

"A mule now?" Roger asked. "A mule, with little antennae?"

He shouldn't goad the most powerful person he'd ever known. It was so _fun_ though.

Roger managed to dash out of range before John could catch him.

He did need to leave John alone for a bit, though, and try to figure out where he stood with the other two. It wouldn't take long, he figured. If he could somehow manage to find out their score without taking hits himself, he'd be in good shape. Working his way down the center of the maze, he took stock of the plethora of hiding places. Tiny caves near the floor. Piles of padded rocks. Even a ball pit, though he felt that was more of a death trap than a good hiding place.

"Rog!"

It was Brian.

"Rog, truce for a sec!"

Though interested, Roger had no patience for a truce. He peered out from behind his neon-green fake rock. Brian approached, both arms raised, the laser gun pointed away in a peaceful gesture.

His shimmering golden vest made such an appealing target.

Taking aim, Roger fired.

"You _idiot!_ What's wrong with you?" Brian recovered before his vest reset, hiding behind a metal divider. "What's all this with you targeting John?"

"Oh, he told on me, did he?" Roger asked. "The snitch!"

Brian remained stationary, which freed Roger up to do the legwork. Tip-toeing away from his rock, he carefully maneuvered himself along a half wall until he stood directly behind Brian.

Who was still focused on the green rock.

"He didn't have to! I heard his vest go off a dozen times," Brian said. "It had to be you."

Roger fired. Brian wasted just enough time staring down at his vest in confusion for it to reset, so Roger fired again. Irate, Brian turned, staring daggers. Giddy, Roger skipped away, doubled back, and scored a third hit.

As Roger fled, he heard his own vest go off.

Too little, too late.

The game progressed, and the others realized that Roger meant to win at all costs. They became a bit harder to find after that, but not impossible. In fact, it became a game within a game; Roger would find them, let them escape, and then score on them again when they thought they were safe.

He had so many points. And after one more opportunistic shot took John out of the running, it was only a matter of time before he eliminated Freddie - who refused to hide anywhere near the floor - and then Brian.

He didn't expect fanfare, but he also didn't expect the cold shoulder from everyone. As they vacated the arena, Freddie and Brian snubbed him entirely.

They found John in the control room with Miles, looking over the scores. "Congratulations, Roger," John said, his voice terse. "Seems I was shot twice by Brian, twice by Freddie, and _sixteen times_ by you. You must be proud."

Roger felt just the slightest twinge of guilt. Just a little. "What can I say? You're an easy target."

Brian and Freddie glared at him, wordlessly. Neither of them said anything - not in front of Miles, anyway. Roger knew what he was doing, though. He hoped. He also kind of hoped he didn't have any mule-ish or termite-ish features. What kind of features did a termite have, anyway? Weren't they blind? "What? He's like, a hundred years old. He _is_ an easy target. And I like winning."

"That's kinda mean," Miles muttered.

Roger had to believe this would work, though. He had to push John's temper _just enough._ Out of the four of them, if Roger was the most competitive, John was a close second - with the right motivation.

"It's fine," John snapped. "Let's do it again."

"You sure?" Miles said. "I mean, it was kind of, uh, unfair... Is how I would describe it."

"Yep." John leveled a glare at Roger. "Totally sure."

"All right, gramps," Roger said. "Don't think I'm gonna go easy on you."

John smiled. "Bring it, whippersnapper."


	10. John's Finest Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title also doubles as a rather perfect summary.

If John had any hope of beating Roger - not to mention the others - he'd have to play smarter, not harder. He considered his loss in the last round an opportunity, rather than a failure, since it got him thinking. John was always happiest when using his mind, even against a poor sportsman like Roger. He'd have to come up with an off-the-rails plan, if he wanted to win.

He could do it.

Laser tag was so straightforward, though. Find a target and shoot at it. Find another target and shoot at that one, too--over and over again until someone won the game. It was a game based in skill and speed, the latter of which John lacked entirely. His legs would only allow him to move at a snail's pace.

But he had skill. Not the conventional skill a game like this usually required, but he could put his brain to good use.

The music started echoing through the arena again, covering the sound of their footfalls. John, having learned a tough lesson during the last round, wandered as far away from his home base as he dared. Hiding between a perpendicular pair of padded walls, he quietly removed his vest.

As he felt along the molded plastic, he kept his guard up, looking back and forth every few seconds to make sure no one approached. If anyone found him - especially Roger - the game would end quickly. He'd have some time, though - he hoped - to at least get things started, enough so that he could come up with a Part Two of his grand scheme.  
  
He hated flying by the seat of his pants. If he had more of an idea where all this would end up, he'd feel so much better. Hell, he really didn't even have a clear picture of how step one would work out!  
  
He could _do this._

Unlike his legs, John's fingers could move relatively unhindered. Feeling along the plastic's bumps and ridges, he eventually found and removed the switch door from the back plate. He resisted turning the vest off, though it was tempting. He'd be disqualified, sure, but it would also mean no one would win. No, he'd have to keep it on, if he was to win properly. Instead, using the switch door's edge, he leveraged a little weight against another seam in the plastic, popping that off, too. Now he had access to the wiring. Perfect.

It was a delicate operation. Pulling the wrong wire could disable the vest entirely, sending a signal to the control room to eliminate him. But the wiring was neat, and color-coded. One set of pins was connected near what looked to be a small wireless transmitter, which must have been the power connection. Another wire connected further down. With the battery door screwed on, he couldn't access the battery to verify, so he took his best guess and unlatched the cable connection on the lower wire and pulled it out.

The green lights faded to black. After waiting a few seconds to see if his name was called for disqualification, and hearing nothing over the loudspeakers, he smiled.  
  


\---  
  


Once again, Roger was in his element, within a field of play where the other competitors were at his mercy. He could show kindness and let them get their money's worth from their time, or quickly take them out, one by one, leaving himself as the sole champion. He hoped to make even better time this round, perhaps even a personal record!

Granted, he had no idea what his personal best was, since he never wrote down his times.

To business, though -- Roger expected his primary target would have learned from the last game, and would try to foil him in this one. True to form, John was no where to be found around the green home base.

Ugh. Roger hated having to _think._ Still, he thought to himself, he could come up with another strategy. An even better game plan than the last one. Mightier. Bigger! First order of business? Figure out where John would have gone.  
  
That... was about as far as Roger got with his plan, though, before he discovered an unforeseen consequence to his prior competitiveness. It seemed Brian and Freddie had formed an alliance to eliminate him as quickly as possible. As he fled from the former, he nearly ran into Freddie at the other end of a long corridor, firing with reckless glee. Barreling through his friend, Roger finally made his escape, but not before his vest indicated several hits.

Damn! That meant he'd have to hide more and fire less. Roger hated playing defensively. It was so _boring._ Still, at only a few minutes into the game, he'd already been shot several times--Maybe three or four, though he worried that number might even be _five._

It made searching for John that much more difficult.

He hated the feeling of being cornered. Everywhere he went, he saw a flash of blue here, or a streak of gold there. Freddie and Brian were no longer playing games.

Well, they were, of course. The whole thing was a game. Still, Roger didn't like this sudden feeling of being hunted. He was supposed to be the victor. The champion. The _king._ Perhaps John would join forces with them, too, making this contest three against one! How... How very... How very _cheaterly!_

Oh, who was Roger kidding? If he had the chance, he'd do exactly the same thing.

"What a sneaky bunch of arseholes," he muttered, his chest swelling with pride. His best friends - all grown up and trying to murder him.

The pressure from two sides - and possibly three - made Roger careless, though. He knew it, but there was nothing to be done about it. He'd just have to play the game and hope he had enough skill to weather the storm. If he could find his elderly friend and back him into a corner, perhaps he could fire off as many shots as possible before Brian and Freddie caught up.

It had a slim chance of working. John also had a weapon, and could just as easily score a few points against Roger. How annoying.

Isn't this what he wanted, though? They all believed Roger to be the son-of-a-bitch bad guy here, who found joy in hunting down an old man. Roger knew his own temper, though, and had hope that John currently possessed his competitive nature, as well.   
  
But John was so very subtle. Mild. Prone to use words rather than actions, which meant he had to be goaded into it... Perhaps even harassed. Roger knew what he was doing. Probably.

He ducked into a small cave, pulling his legs in. It smelled vaguely like sweat and vomit, and it was only with sheer force of will that Roger managed to stay put. On top of that, the purple glow from his vest gave away his position, so he lowered his chest as close to the floor as he dared. The plastic plate on his chest stuck to the ground with a disgusting _thpp_ sound.

A pair of white sneakers ran by.

Freddie.

Alone, he hoped.

Roger slithered out of his cave, took a shot, and immediately ducked behind a padded divider. He heard Freddie's vest go off. Heard him swear. But by the time Freddie turned around, Roger was nowhere to be seen.  
  


\---  
  


"C'mon, you son-of-a-bitch."

John paused, looking up from the floor. He saw no lights nearby, other than the strobes and spots flickering on the other side of his partition. Warily, he went back to work.

As he crouched next to the metal partition track, his knees didn't seem to hurt so much. Still, the exertion was taking its toll. Already he felt as if he could collapse into bed and sleep for a year. Not before besting Roger, though. He'd probably regret it all later, when he couldn't stand, but at least he'd be able to gloat about how he took out all three of them, all without suffering a single hit himself.

"Ah! There..."

He placed a finger against the screw so he could find it again. With a quick glance upward, he gauged the distance between the partition and the black-painted window above it. Most of the colorful lights were mounted on the window's generous ledge out of convenience, which led John to consider the fact that he could probably fit himself up there, too. It was the perfect place to hide, after all. No one would look for him five meters off the floor.

Out of all the collapsible walls he'd tried, this one seemed like his best chance. It shook just a little when he placed weight against it, and moved in its track more than the others. That meant it wasn't secured properly, which meant it might suit his needs.

Despite the raucous music, John heard footsteps nearby, and realized his plan's folly. His laser still glowed as brightly as any of the other lights in the arena! Surely he'd be seen.

Hastily, he stuffed the weapon up his shirt and under his vest as Brian sneaked past, not even a couple meters away. Holding his breath, John flattened himself against the wall, but in the deep shadows, and without lights decorating his person, he was invisible, and Brian failed to spot him.

He waited another minute, just to be sure Brian was gone. Then, crouching down next to the divider again, John used the edge of the switch door as a makeshift tool to unscrew the brackets holding the wall upright.  
  


\---  
  


Generally, Roger at least tried to keep a general idea in his head of how many times he'd been shot. This time, though, he could only concentrate on keeping himself hidden. He couldn't even recall how many times he'd tagged Freddie and Brian. Two each? Three? He still had a long way to go before he eliminated them, though, that was for sure.

Plus, he still hadn't found John.

At least this game provided a challenge! As frustrated as Roger was with the team-up between his friends, he always wished for a game like this. Well, perhaps not _quite_ like this. He wanted a challenge, but he also still wanted to win. Perhaps he'd met his match.

His vest flashed red again, and he swore. Unable to see where the shot had originated, Roger fled in a zig-zag pattern, managing to avoid taking another hit from whomever waited for him on the other side of the corridor. As he pressed himself against the outside wall, he saw a yellow aura sneak by. Normally, Roger would take the opportunity to fire, but where Brian was, Freddie would soon follow, and he wasn't in a position to take on two of them. Not right now. If he could fit into another hiding place and wait, he'd be able to at least score another point on each of them.

The music faded. Immediately, footsteps all over the arena halted, shoes squeaking on the floor as their owners struggled to stop. The P.A. speaker crackled, taking the place of the music. "Guys! Guys, I've just figured it out!" Miles announced. "I can't believe it. Here, you'll like this one."

The opening harmonies of "Bohemian Rhapsody" began to play.

"Hey! We're getting airtime!" Freddie shouted from somewhere in the maze.

Roger turned, hoping he could reach the source of the voice before Freddie moved on.  
  


\---  
  


Bohemian Rhapsody. Queen's magnum opus. A perfect accompaniment to John's nefarious plot.

Without any way to measure, he had to take his best guess as to whether or not this particular partition stood near enough to the outside wall to work. Thankfully, his guesses were often more accurate than most other peoples' certainties.

He waited until the start of the second verse. As the volume swelled, John made sure the bottom of the partition was still wedged it its track, then he pushed the whole thing over, toward the wall.

It hit with a--  
  


\---  
  


\-- _thud._

"What the hell?" Roger asked no one.

He knew he heard something, though he couldn't be sure what, or even where it came from. It echoed off the walls, bouncing back and forth between one end of the arena and the other. With Brian's guitar solo beginning and causing Roger's ears to bleed - figuratively or literally, he had no idea - he couldn't pinpoint the location of the crash.

Had he heard anything at all?

A horrible thought occurred to him. Maybe John had fallen, and now writhed around on the floor, in desperate need of rescue! If anything happened to him, Roger wouldn't be able to forgive himself for _at least_ a couple days. Maybe even three. No... Probably four. John had enough going on in his life, so Roger could at least play at being contrite for half a week.

Even with all the joking around with himself in his head, Roger still felt a sense of responsibility and worry. He wondered if, perhaps, "Keep Yourself Alive" might have been a better song choice, considering the circumstances. He began repeating the chorus like a mantra, even if it was out of key thanks to the blaring of "Bohemian Rhapsody."

Throwing caution aside, he rounded a corner and nearly crashed right into Brian. Their eyes met; Roger raised his hands in surrender, as Brian scowled. "You heard it, too?" Roger asked. "We gotta find 'im."

"I knew this was a bad idea. You never fucking listen-- "

"Yell at me later, Bri."

"I will!" Brian retorted. "Don't think I won't!"

Roger's vest emitted the tell-tale electronic 'Pyoo!' sound, registering a hit. Thinking that perhaps Brian had decided to take his vengeance now, Roger turned to glare, though as he did, Brian's vest flashed red, as well.

Strange.

The same 'Pyoo!' sounded from behind them, where Freddie stared down at his vest in confusion. It, too, glowed red for a couple seconds, before returning to blue.

"Well, none of us are firing at each other..." Brian started, before his vest registered another hit. He fixed Roger with a distrustful stare, then Freddie, but neither of them were even aiming.

Roger's vest went off again. Then Freddie's. Then Brian's again. It would be an endless cycle if they didn't find some cover!  
  
"It's an ambush!" Roger exclaimed. He dived behind a partition amid the 'Pyoo! Pyoo!' coming from the other two. "Where the fuck is he? Brian!"

"I don't know!"

"He can't be too hurt, can he?" Freddie added. "And to think, I was worried."

He crouched behind Roger's partition, scowling, as if they now shared a common enemy. Betraying his friend's trust, Roger aimed, fired, and fled, only to be hit again as he ventured out into the open.

Dammit, John!

"Dammit, Roger!" Freddie snapped.

Freddie's vest flashed red again, distracting him long enough for Roger to make an escape.

No matter where Roger went, he always seemed to be in the line of fire. He had to play smarter if he wanted to stay in the game, which meant listening better. Even over the operatic section of the song, he could still hear the faint 'Pyoo!' coming from elsewhere in the maze, which meant John's attention would be elsewhere. Every time someone else registered a hit, Roger crept along the partitions until he could hide again.

Even being as careful as he was, though, he still took several hits.

"I'm out!" Brian called.

So quickly! Such a thorough victory! Sure, it took a while for John to get to that point, but once he had...

"Fuck! I'm out, too!" Freddie called.

Damn.

Roger couldn't let John win. He _just couldn't._ Though his hit count must have been near twenty, he could still pull off a victory with care. If his guess was right, he could avoid taking hits if he stood behind walls facing only a certain way.

Testing the waters, Roger held his laser out into the space between two partitions, and was rewarded with the _tseer_ sound of John's weapon firing.

He'd given away his position, but had learned a critical bit of information. John was trigger-happy. Of course, he'd only fall for the same trick a few times. Maybe he wouldn't expect Roger to try to pull the same thing twice in a row, though?

Roger waved his laser out into the open again. Immediately after he heard John's shot, he darted from one wall to the other, flattening himself against his new hiding place.

Safe. For now. Plus, Roger had a better idea of where he could find his foe. He couldn't be anywhere on _this_ side of the wall. Perhaps closer to the middle? Roger considered the range of his laser, and felt that was the only explanation.

If he stayed along the outside and hid as close to the partitions as possible, he might be able to find John and shoot him enough to eliminate him. Maybe. Though Roger couldn't think of even one time he'd scored a hit on his friend. His mission became less about winning, and more about at least denying John a perfect game.

So he crept along, keeping himself as invisible as possible, despite the glowing purple lights announcing his position no matter where he stood. He wanted John to move - to come out into the open, so they could have a face-to-face shootout, which would be _so cool._ With how Roger treated him in the first game, though, the likelihood of that happening seemed close to zero.

"Where are you?" Roger asked.

He rounded another corner. At any moment, he expected to see his adversary, his green vest shimmering in the dark.

The operatic segment of "Bohemian Rhapsody" ended. The music grew in volume as the hard rock segment began; as soon as 'so you think you can love me and leave me to die' played, Roger's vest made the 'pyoo' sound again, and turned from purple to red.

It stayed red this time.

He was out.

How the _hell...?_

Roger heard positively nefarious laughter! He recognized his own voice, which meant that somewhere, somehow, John was laughing at him. The little _shit!_

The house lights came up. Roger had to shield his eyes for a moment against the brightness. After blinking a few times and re-adjusting his eyes, he saw Miles wandering out of the control room and down the stairs, with Brian and Freddie just behind him. They were all smiling; it was Freddie who pointed up, toward one of the windows.

Roger looked.

There was John, sitting on a ledge, several meters off the floor. His legs were crossed, a smile plastered on his face. He looked different, Roger thought, though with the strobe lights still on, he couldn't quite make out any features. Every time he tried, he found himself blinded by another flash.

"Strictly speakin'," Miles said, "He aren't s'posed t'be up there. But it was so funny, I couldn't..." He squinted up at John, then said, "Isn't he supposed ter be, like, really old?"

Ah, that was it. John's face shone with the vigor of youth once again, albeit with incredibly dark circles under both exhausted eyes. Come to think of it, Roger realized, he looked about ready to collapse, though perhaps the excitement of his flawless victory was the only thing keeping him awake.

John held his vest in one hand. It dangled from two fingers, clearly unlit. "I'm not old?" he asked, frowning. Slumping, he allowed the vest to fall.

Miles dove forward to catch it. "Oi! That's expensive, you git!"

Roger beamed as John looked down at his hands. If anything, he might have even looked a couple years younger than before. His hair had grown out brown, which Roger found a little weird, since his hair hadn't been brown in years, but that was all beside the point. His plan had worked!

"Someone want to tell me what's going on?" Miles asked.

"It's better if you don't know," John said, exhaustion causing his voice to tremble. He rubbed his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. "I think I'd really like to come down now."  
  


\---  
  


John didn't last much longer after his win. In fact, they had to carry him to the car, which Roger felt just sober enough to drive home. By the time they returned to the hotel, John was dead on his feet, unable to stay awake even when standing. And he was _heavy._ Brian offered to carry his legs to help, but it already looked strange enough with two people carrying an unconscious bassist between them. They didn't need to make themselves any more conspicuous.

"Sure takes a lot out of 'im, don't it?" Freddie asked. He nudged the outside door open with his foot, so Roger could shoulder it open the rest of the way. Brian stepped around them to hold it, until they managed to get John inside, then he ran ahead to hit the elevator button.

"The energy's got to come from somewhere, I guess," Brian said as the others caught up. As they waited for the lift, John started snoring. Freddie grumbled something about the dead weight, and tried to scoot John's feet back under him, though the effort was in vain.

After Freddie and Roger managed to get John onto the elevator, Brian hesitated in the corridor. "I'll meet you guys upstairs. I think I'm gonna stop at the deli and get him a sandwich and a soda."

The doors closed. John snorted.

"Don't you think it's weird that we're just... talking about this now like it's normal?" Roger asked. "Like, 'oh dearie me, John's done a trick again. We'd best feed him to get his energy up!' Weird."

Freddie meant to shrug, but he couldn't. Not with John's added weight. "Maybe we're still in denial," he responded. "Like, it hasn't quite hit us yet. I'm sure I'll have a grand freak-out at some point, darling. Though, with him getting a grip on this thing he can do, maybe there's some light at the end of the tunnel, eh?"

Roger pressed his lips together, and Freddie sighed. Truthfully, how could they ask John to even try now, especially since it became painfully obvious that his ability was so rough on him? Aging himself was complicated in and of itself. How much worse would he fare after putting them all back in their proper bodies?

"I think we should wait a couple days. You know. Before we ask him," Roger said, echoing Freddie's thoughts. "Let him rest."

"I can do it," John muttered. He looked up for a fraction of a second, before his eyes drooped closed again. "I'll ... Do it right... now..."

The sentence was punctuated with a snore. His head flopped back.

"I probably don't even have to tell him no, do I?" Freddie asked.


	11. A Video Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John figures out how to make things happen. Explaining it is another story. Still, he's learning, and proves it quite readily.

John described his state of consciousness as 'fuzzy' the next morning. Though still sleepy, he said he wasn't exhausted, even if he looked it. Brian put a cup of coffee in his hands, which he curled his nose at.

"I think I'm figuring it out," John said. He took a sip from his mug and wrinkled his nose again. "I guess it's like... Lining things up in exact order to make something happen. Like a coding sequence. Or a Rube Goldberg device."

Brian opened the laptop, half paying attention to the others, as he typed in a search query. Fires + Aging, he tried. Finding nothing, he did a general search for people who'd come forward since the Fire Bloom to see if they could provide any insight.

"Well, that's lucky, then, isn't it?" Freddie asked. "Somehow you lined things up in the exact order - as you say - to do this?" He gestured down at himself, then made a grand, sweeping motion at the others. "Without even meaning to? I guess that'd be _unlucky_ as it were."

"Mm," John wondered. He idly rubbed at his nose, then snapped his fingers. "Okay, I got it. Video games! You know how when you first start, you just kind of... Hit all the buttons and hope something happens? And chances are, you'll do fine. In fact, you might even win. It's beginner's luck."

"You're equating your superpowers to _button mashing?"_ Roger asked.

John grinned. "Kind of! Yeah! I didn't really have any idea what I was doing at first. But now I'm kind of figuring it out as I go. Learning the combination of... Well, you get the idea, I suppose. I'm starting to do what I want to do, when I want to do it. It's not second nature just yet, but I'm thinking it could be, with practice."

Brian abandoned the computer. "Sort of like muscle memory when you're trying to execute a combo."

"Right."

"So what happened last night?" Freddie asked.

John bounced in his seat, careful not to spill the coffee. With a note of rare excitement in his voice, he squealed, "I scored a perfect game against Roger, is what I did!"

Roger grumbled something about Freddie meaning something else. Crossing his arms, he pouted, mock-angry about his loss. Humbled, John offered an embarrassed smile and amended: "I did things in the right order."

"Oh, that clears things up," Freddie said. "Really, John."

He shook his head. "I guess it's a bit more complicated than button mashing. Ah... I had the idea, I rationalized it, and I did it." John scratched his head. "There's more to it. I know there's more to it. It sounds so simple when I say it, but it's not. I... I think I can try to do things on purpose now, to practice, before I try switching us all back to normal."

"Well, if it takes this much out of you, we should wait, darling," Freddie said, standing from the chair and transferring himself next to John on the couch. "Look at you. Your eyes are so dark, you look like a skeleton!"

John smiled, looking down at his coffee. "I know. But now that I know I can do it, I want to try."

"Why is it you, anyway?" Roger said. He flopped down in the chair Freddie had just vacated, and crossed his arms again. "I mean, I'm a little jealous here, to be honest. Why is it John and not me? Or Brian?"

"It's a valid question," Brian said, turning back to the computer. "Not that we doubt your skill, John..."

"But you gotta wonder how it happened, don't you?" Roger asked. "Who decides who gets super powers? Maybe it's aliens."

"Just because something isn't explained, it doesn't mean aliens did it," Brian said, as he scrolled through half a dozen 'Aliens Among Us' theories. "Or magic. There's a logical explanation; we just have to figure out what it is."

"But it _could_ be aliens," Roger suggested. "And look! John's turned the mud in his cup to water!"

John looked down into the coffee mug and immediately threw it, as if it was cursed. Water splashed everywhere, mostly on Freddie. The mug rolled to a stop under the coffee table.

"What'd you throw it for, you jerk?" Freddie demanded, brushing water off his clothes.

"I didn't mean to!" John replied, eyes as big as plates. He blinked, taking a deep breath. Crawling off the couch, he retrieved his mug, cradling it for a moment before up-ending it. The last of the water dripped onto the floor. "I was just thinking how... How I wished it was water..."

Incredible. But still no closer to any sort of explanation. "Did you--" Brian started.

"You're damn lucky it's cold, too." Freddie griped. "I don't look good with burns all over!"

"No one does, you prat," Roger said. "Anyway, Brian, where do you think these powers came from? It's just _got_ to be aliens!"

Brian didn't answer. The internet agreed with Roger.   
  
He closed the laptop again. The internet was supposed to be a wealth of information with the answer to any question. Of course, with more questions than answers at the moment - for a good portion of the world - Brian couldn't find anything helpful. He put his head down on the desk for a moment, trying to ignore the sticky surface, comprised of years of dirt and layers of harsh cleaners.

The others argued as Brian fought off a headache. John insisted it wasn't magic or superpowers. Roger asked what would be wrong with that, if it was? Freddie said something about John never wanting to use any cool words to describe himself, because he was a stick-in-the-mud.

One of them threw a pillow.

Brian sighed, taking a tiny slip of paper out of his pocket. Unfolding it, he looked at the hastily-scrawled numbers, written perpendicular to the ruled lines.

"Why else would they call them _throw pillows?"_ Roger asked. Brian ducked to the side as another pillow flew past his head and made a soft _paff_ as it hit the curtain. Freddie retrieved it.

Brian had no idea how to let Miles down. Telling the truth? No, that was out of the question. And yet, the truth didn't seem so very strange anymore, considering the number of odd things happening in the world. Secrets were funny things, though, and Brian felt compelled to keep this one close. If not for his sake, then for John's. 

"Whatcha got there, Bri?" Freddie asked.

Startled, Brian jumped, his hand automatically crumpling up the paper. Stupid, he knew. If he didn't come clean about what he had, the others would badger him until they found out, either by coercing the truth out of him, or stealing the scrap of paper. Unfolding it, he held it up. "Miles gave me his phone number last night. I figured..." He paused as Freddie's jaw dropped, clear jealousy written on his face. "I figured I'd just give it to you, Freddie. You know, once we're..."

Again, he hesitated. Mentioning anything about John getting them back to their proper bodies seemed as if he wanted to rush the process. And John was still learning.

"I haven't gotten a phone number in _months,_ let alone the time of day!" Freddie snatched the paper out of his hands and looked at it. "Seems like a real number, too! What'd you say to get him to give you this?"

Brian couldn't help a smile. He tried to hide it, which meant he ended up with a half-smirk on his face, which probably looked ridiculous. "Honestly? Not much. I was a little nervous."

Freddie held the paper back out to him, pouting.

"No, you keep it--" Brian started.   
  
"Well I can't, can I?" Freddie all but snarled. "Won't he think it's odd if I show up for a date with a completely different personality? No, darling. I can't take it. I... Honestly, I can't even tell if he's good looking at all right now, so..." He shot a scathing glance in John's direction. "Thanks, John."

John raised his eyebrows for a second in acknowledgement, smiling.

"Are you going to call him?" Roger asked, a look of barely-restrained glee on his face. "You were flirting so hard last night, it'd be almost a shame if you didn't."

"It was awkward," John said.

Brian narrowed his eyes. "No, I'm not going to call him."

"But it's a great opportunity, isn't it?" Freddie asked. "None of you ever seem to understand what I'm on about. Look, Brian, you could learn something."

"And, what, break his heart?" Brian asked. Unfortunately, he still couldn't get over the idea that he could be intimate with a man _like that_. Sure, he was close enough with the other members of Queen, but before this whole mess they got themselves into, he never found them _attractive._ They were his friends, and he enjoyed the comradery he shared with them. But looking at Miles... And even John sometimes... The emotion he felt was foreign to him, and his body responded to it without his permission.

And he knew he was being hypocritical, being that he had no problem with Freddie's sexuality. He even encouraged his friend to keep looking for that special someone that would make him happy. Brian just couldn't entirely wrap his head around the idea when it was applied to himself.

He must have looked obviously uncomfortable, because the others weren't making fun of him. Roger looked like he wanted to, though, with that smirk plastered across his face.

"You won't break his heart," Freddie said. "How many girls have you only gone on _one date_ with? Plenty, I'm guessing. It's the same with guys. Look, there's such a small chance that there'll be any chemistry anyway. Just because two men are gay doesn't mean they want to jump in bed with each other!"

Roger couldn't hold it back anymore. He barked out a loud laugh, burying his face in the crook of his arm.

"Roger's laughing because he doesn't understand," John said dryly. "Every time he's taken a girl out, they've slept together."

Roger's laugh immediately dissolved, with a sharp " _Hey!"_ And another thrown pillow. "Not _every_ girl."

Brian felt his cheeks burning. Surely he could think of a way out of this. "John's gotta... do the thing, though," he said. "I can't go."

"Oh, it'll be a while before I can manage anything, I'm afraid," John said. He leaned forward, eyes partially lidded, grinning mischievously. "I'll have to start small first, besides. Nothing on the scale of putting us all back together."

Brian glared at him. "Well, then I... I mean... There's other things I really have to..." He trailed off, looking down at his hands. Sticking around in the hotel room so John could fix them all had been the only excuse he could think of. As flustered as he was now, Brian couldn't think of anything else. "Well, Freddie's coming with me, then!"

Freddie threw up his hands. "Ah, the third wheel on a date. Just what I've always wanted to be. Honestly, Brian, what do you expect me to do? Whisper everything you're supposed to be doing in your ear? Like some comedy TV show?"

"...Maybe?"

"So you're gonna go?" Roger asked, sitting forward in his seat.

"No!" Brian said.

"Yes, you are." Freddie reached over and plucked the paper from Brian's fingers again. "I'm memorizing this number, in case you decide to destroy the evidence. At least one of you idiots is going to understand me."

Roger giggled behind his hand.

"I'll need a disguise, at any rate," Freddie muttered. "Miles knows who we are now. He'll recognize me if I just tag along. "Hm..."

"Well there it is!" Brian said. "I won't go without Freddie, and Freddie can't go, 'cuz Miles will recognize him. It's out."

"I have an idea," John said, with a triumphant smile.

Brian groaned.  
  


\---  
  


Freddie looked nervous.

And for good reason, John thought. He didn't exactly have the best track record when it came to using his ability. Even now, he still felt like he was flying blind with only a vague idea of how to make it work. "It's okay," he said, trying to sound confident. He met Freddie's eyes - his own green eyes - and attempted a reassuring smile.

Freddie was already dressed in black to look as inconspicuous as possible. As he knelt on the floor across from John, Roger and Brian - the latter in nicer clothes than normal - watched with silent interest.

"I do trust you, darling," Freddie said hesitantly. "It's just that..."

"I know," John said. Like he had when he fixed Brian's arm, John reached out to give himself some sort of connection. On some level, he knew it was ridiculous, since he could obviously make things happen without direct contact, but it helped him concentrate, and it felt right to do _something_ rather than sitting motionless.

Automatically, Freddie flinched away, before offering a contrite grimace of apology.

"I trust you," Freddie said again, as if trying to convince himself. He leaned back toward John's hand.

Now, he just had to do things in the proper order. Actually thinking about it instead of just instinctively _doing_ it made it all a little more difficult, but John felt like he was on the right track. Mostly. He gently touched the ends of Freddie's curls.

And he reached inward, through his own emotions. His quiet nature, his subtle, ever-present nervousness and fear. He pushed aside the anger and impatience, searching for something softer. He ignored his suspicious demeanor and his tendency to balk at putting himself _out there._ Within, he found the charitable part of himself reserved for those closest to him. His gentleness. The altruistic part that he never really considered much before. That's where the power came from. As long as he found the spark and utilized it, he could do anything.

John would never tell Roger that all this happened because he just felt so much love for his best friends, and that the warm feeling of friendship enabled him to do amazing feats never before thought possible. He'd never hear the end of it!

But that's exactly why he couldn't hurt them.

He felt the touch of sleepiness that came from any use of his power. But it was only just beginning to bloom; he had time.

Empathy.

"What are you trying to do?" Freddie asked.

John didn't answer. Since becoming aware of his own ability, he could sense... something. It felt like delicate latticework in his mind, like lace or the tiniest tendrils of a climbing vine. He tried to see them, to visualize them, but they faded from his mind's eye as soon as he tried to focus. Still, he could feel an aura of sorts, though he couldn't say for certain where it was or what it was coming from.

 _Come on,_ he demanded, as the sleepiness became exhaustion. He felt like he'd been awake for twelve hours instead of two.

If he could make this happen, though... If he could just tap into whatever part of himself made this work, he knew he could do it again.

"John? You okay?"

He heard Brian's voice, and ignored that, too. He closed his eyes. He had to focus.

Inward.

Into the dark.

Something as simple as this _should_ have been easy, but every time he tried to focus, his curiosity would demand to know how it worked, before it would oblige. _How, how, how?_ John asked himself over and over. Every time the question invaded his thoughts, the tendrils twisted farther and farther away. He never liked the idea of magic, or the paranormal, or anything else lacking a solid explanation. Yet here he was...

 _If you do this,_ he told himself, _perhaps you'll understand how._

With that incentive, he closed his fingers around Freddie's hair, then opened his eyes.

His hair was long. Longer than it had been a couple years prior, when Queen first formed. Unstyled, it fell into Freddie's face, over surprised eyes that stared out at John through reddish waves.

"Holy shit, John!" Roger exclaimed. "It was--Did you see? Brian, did you see that?"

Brian nodded, his expression somewhere between concerned and stunned.

And John found himself laughing -- in relief, or mirth, he had no idea. He was tired, sure, but he had to do more. "Look, watch!" He grasped for the tendrils again, still unable to form a complete picture of what they ought to look like. Vines, he kept thinking. Vines. Vines. It wasn't quite right, but it worked, for now. "I bet I can..."

As Freddie tried to push the tangle of long hair out of his face, John took hold of a couple strands, and encircled it with those vines of energy. It was easier now, to picture what he wanted to do. Even with his wakefulness waning, he still made the demand of himself, and...

Let go of Freddie's hair, sitting back on his ankles.

"What?" Freddie asked. "What'd he do?"

"He took the grey out," Brian said quietly. "John, why did you--"

"Roger, c'mere," John interrupted. He wasn't about to get into an argument about his grey hair right now. If he _could_ do away with it, then why wouldn't he? Besides, he couldn't stop smiling, nor could he stop the impulse to _do more._ He understood it now, as much as he could, and was starting to form a clear picture of how it all _worked._

"Nuh-uh. Last time I had Brian's hair in my face, I had a breakdown." Roger protectively twined his fingers into his short-cropped curls.

"Brian?" John asked.

"Sorry, Deaky. Thanks to Freddie, I have a date tonight. Miles'll think it's weird if I show up with hair down to my shoulders."

He had to do something, anything, to make sure that his first two accomplishments weren't just flukes. In fact, he had such a strong compulsion to do as much as he could, that he reached up to his own hair - Roger's hair, really - without even thinking about it, and turned it from brown to blond.

Permanently, if Roger wanted.

What else could he do?

"Christ," Roger said. "I mean, you're getting good at that, John, but you might want to... Er..."

"Someone should catch him," Brian said, his voice infuriatingly calm.

A confusing statement, to be sure, until John realized he couldn't support himself anymore. He just had nothing left to give, and he was slowly falling forward.

"Nope, not today," Freddie said, his voice just registering at the edge of John's consciousness.

He collided with Freddie; strong arms wrapped around him, preventing him from falling the rest of the way to the floor and breaking his nose on the ugly carpet.

"Geez, he's heavy," Freddie muttered.

And John felt like dead weight, unable to move, or even speak to thank Freddie for the rescue. Frustrating, he thought, as his vision closed in, to have this power at his disposal and be far too sleepy to wield it.

Strange, too.

Impossible, even.

But he was starting to think that the word 'impossible' meant nothing now.


	12. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This probably wasn't a good idea. At least there's a lesson to be learned.

He dreamed this time.

He floated somewhere in a realm of magma - bright, glowing, comfortably hot and all-encompassing. It felt like home.

John couldn't remember dreaming before, after heavy use of his abilities. Every other time he blacked out, he felt nothing and saw nothing until he woke, hours later, confused and still tired.

But this was nice, like he no longer had any cares in the world. Despite the fiery lava all around him, he felt comfortably swaddled, as if snuggled within a never-ending blanket. He never had to wake up, if he didn't wish to. He could stay here forever.

Yet, he did find it strange that he fully understood he was dreaming. That alone should have forced him out of sleep.

"They're awake?" a voice asked. She was tired, weary. John turned to try to find her, but all he could see was more magma, everywhere.

"John?" she said.

"John?"

He woke, in his bed this time, instead of on the couch or - even worse - on the floor where he fell. The room was dark, except for a sliver of light coming through the door, where Roger stood. "I was just checking on you... You were talking in your sleep."

John sat up, rubbing his head. He felt fuzzy again, though not as confused as usual. "I was dreaming. I think I was in a volcano." Groaning, he eased his legs off the bed. They still felt heavy, so he wasn't about to test whether or not they'd support him. Maybe in a little while.

He glanced at the clock.

He couldn't remember when he'd passed out, but the clock read half-past seven. Four hours? Five? Did it matter?

"Brian and Freddie?" John asked.

"Gone, on Brian's date." Roger couldn't help a smile. "Poor Brian. He was actually nervous. Guess I can't blame him. Miles picked him up, then Freddie took a cab to follow. Poor guy's so put-out."

"Brian or Freddie?" John asked. He flipped on the pint-sized lamp next to his bed and stretched, forcing proper feeling back into his legs.

"Both. How many times have you seen Freddie take a cab?"

John shrugged, conceding.

Roger hesitated at the doorway for a little longer, before stepping into the room. At first, John thought maybe he was afraid, but Roger soon made up his mind and sat on the corner of the bed, just an arm's reach away.

"So, what you did... It was pretty amazing."

John rubbed his eyes, trying to will the fuzzy feeling away. "I got a little crazy at the end. I can put your hair back, if you want."

"Oh, that's okay. It's not like I wouldn't bleach it anyway." Roger jammed his toe into the carpet, tracing the lines. "Look, anyway, I have an idea, if you want to practice more?"

John wasn't so sure. After all, he couldn't stay awake after using his ability, and he didn't want to sleep his entire life away. Besides, his stomach was rumbling again; all he could think about was taking a walk to the deli and getting a bag of crisps or something. Still, he was curious. He arched an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Roger said. "Yeah, anyway, I was wondering... If you could cure Brian's depression."  
  


\---  
  


Brian couldn't process any feeling other than nervousness. It was all he could do to just maintain conversation, and that amounted to nothing more than pleasantries, and a discussion about the weather that somehow lasted way longer than any conversation about weather ought to.

And Miles sensed his reticence, but wasn't inclined to call him out on it. In fact, his calm, almost goofy demeanor put Brian at ease, and bolstered his confidence.

Which Brian didn't want, of course! Being nervous meant he wouldn't have to feel anything else.

"It's... Um. It's nice weather for this time of year, isn't it?" Brian asked.

Miles narrowed his eyes a bit, smiling. "We're back on that, are we? All right." Miles took a sip of water around his smirk. "To be honest, there's this little place up the road with a million sunflowers, all in bloom. It's my favorite place to be, this time of year. And if we're lucky, we can swipe a few, yeah? Roasted sunflower seeds."

Brian arched an eyebrow. "You've done that before."

"'course I have. No one grows a million sunflowers and uses 'em all, do they?" Miles gestured to Brian's menu, still lying flat on the table. "You best look at what they got, if you plan to order."

Oh, right. Food.

Although, Brian wasn't entirely sure how he'd be able to eat, given the roiling storm churning around in his stomach. He'd be lucky to get through the meal without vomiting. Perhaps if he did throw up, though, he'd drive Miles off in disgust, and wouldn't have to worry about it anymore.

No. Bad idea.

Picking up the menu, he hid behind it, peeking out around one side as Miles perused the drink display in the center of the table. Brian did like the way his streaked hair fell into his eyes _just so,_ and how his dark eyes seemed to sparkle in the restaurant's low light. And that smile! So hopeful and sweet and kind, every bit as sincere as the joy in his eyes. It all came back to his eyes. Always.

Miles saw him staring. Brian hurriedly looked at the menu again.

He did have a lot of tattoos - all the way up one arm and down the other. And just like that, Brian thought of something to say. The perfect topic of conversation! Something for which Miles obviously had passion.

"Your arms," is all he managed.

Miles chuckled. "Yeah, I've gone a bit overboard, haven't I?" He rolled back one sleeve. "There's not a lot to do, though, you know? So I get myself inked. It's mostly just things I like... Do you have any?"

Brian honestly had no idea if Freddie had any tattoos, since he hadn't checked every possible location. Still, his reaction probably shouldn't have been to shrug.

"You don't know?" Miles asked.

"Ah, I mean. No. No, I don't. Sorry, I'm just..."

Brian buried his head behind his menu again. Miles chuckled. "Oh, it's all right. I don't mean to make you nervous. Not sure why I'm... I'm so... I mean, do you find the tattoos intimidatin'? Maybe I shoulda wore longer sleeves."

He seemed genuinely worried. Brian hurried to shake his head. "No, it's not that. I just... Don't go on many dates, is all." Not entirely a lie. Still, Brian couldn't remember feeling this nervous on a date with a woman.

He glanced about. No one was looking at them, really, but he felt a sort of palpable disapproval among the patrons. Or maybe his own fears were playing at him. Making him think about things that really weren't happening. Brian did worry for Freddie, after all. Even with a much more tolerant population, there were bad people out there who wanted to make things miserable for everyone.

"Oh!" Miles seemed almost relieved. "I mean, I get it. I guess I stopped caring a while ago, y'know? But don't let 'em scare ya. I'll bounce anyone outta here that says anythin'. That's why I got these!" He rolled his sleeves back, revealing rather toned biceps and well-chiseled shoulders.

And Brian _felt things._ He didn't mean to. He certainly didn't want to.

He knew Miles was showing off, too, but Brian couldn't help admiring those arms and their intricate pattern of tattoos. Whoever inked them expertly followed the curve of each muscle, carefully making sure each piece of art had an appropriate space to shine. At the same time, each tattoo melded together perfectly with the one beside it, to make one grand picture.

Satisfied that he'd made a good impression, Miles started to roll his sleeve down again. Of course, that was the moment Brian saw the one tattoo that interested him most; his hand snapped forward without a second thought, briefly covering Miles' hand and pushing it - and the sleeve - back upward.

They were practically holding hands.

Miles tilted his head just a little, quirking a brow.

Brian let go, his whole arm hovering for a moment as he came to the realization that there was no graceful way to withdraw. His shoulders slumped, and he pointed to the tattoo that caught his attention - a tiny representation of the solar system.

"That's the one you like?" Miles chuckled. "It's the firs' one I ever got! I think. Yeah, it's not the best work, but I love it anyway. Kinda like an ugly puppy."

"You like space," Brian said, inwardly kicking himself for how stupid he sounded.

"Yeah, been studyin' astronomy at university, between workin' at the laser tag place at night. Dunno what I'm gonna do yet. Maybe I'll go to the moon!"

 _Don't say anything_ , Brian told himself. _Do not engage! Remain passive, dull, and disinterested._

Before he could shut himself up, he blurted out, "I was studying astrophysics!'

Fuck it. He really didn't care about pretending to be Freddie anymore. Brian was making a connection here, and he couldn't help pursuing it. "It was before Queen got going, but I don't want to go into space so much as figure out how to maybe get other people there. The... um. You know, the math, the projections, the expanding universe. How things react with other things."

Brian finally spotted Freddie, who turned and aimed an incredulous glare over his shoulder from the table situated just behind Miles. Clearly, he'd been listening in to the entire conversation, and didn't like where it was going.

All Brian could do was shrug.

"So you want to do all the work on paper," Miles said, leaning forward, elbows resting on the table.

Freddie was an artist, not a physicist, and Brian was _supposed to be lying,_ remaining as superficial as possible. He needed to end it now. Take it all back, or change the subject. Anything but agreeing.

"Yeah!" Brian exclaimed, then blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. "The geek stuff, they say."

 _Great job, idiot,_ he chastised himself.

Freddie rolled his eyes and shook his head in an expression that clearly screamed "this is on you."

"You don't seem like the type," Miles said. "I mean, you don't look like you would--Study--You know, you've kinda got that look, like you're--You know, the music... person... look--Ah, shit, I've stuck my foot in my mouth now."

Brian laughed. "Nah, I get it. We all try to project that image a bit. Even John sometimes. Everyone's always surprised when I tell 'em I'm almost a doctor."

"Doctor Freddie, eh?" Miles asked.

Miles' use of Freddie's name felt like a bucket of cold water to the face. Still, all Brian could do was nod and mutter an awkward, "yeah, Doctor Freddie. Probably Doctor Mercury, I'd imagine."

At the table behind Miles, Freddie turned almost all the way around in his chair, making a slicing motion across his throat - _cut it out._

Brian ignored him.

"So how'd you go from science to music?" Miles asked.

"They're not so far off. Not as much as a lot of people believe. When you get right down to it, it's really all math, isn't it?" Raising his fork, Brian gently tapped his glass. "You know the incredible thing is that we humans can only perceive a certain range of tone. The exact number of molecules in this glass make a sound we can recognize and name - it's B-flat, I think - but if I took a sip, I'd never make the exact same tone ever again."

"It'd sound the same. To me," Miles said.

"Right. And to me. But it wouldn't be, would it? Certain wavelengths equal a B-flat, just like certain wavelengths make us hear a C, or D--whatever. But it's never the same. When I figured that out, I had to know more."

"So you went from music, to science... To music."

Brian laughed. "Kinda, yeah, that's my story. How'd you go from science to laser tag?"

"I figured opening the laser tag and making some extra cash would help me through school," Miles said. "Guess it wasn't the best plan to do it in the middle of nowhere. But, y'know, all the stars on the walls are relatively accurate in relation to the other stars. I... have a lot of time to myself."

"Well, it was fun, and it..." Brian caught himself before he accidentally opened his mouth and spilled out the truth about John. About all of them, really. It would have been so easy, considering how comfortable he was talking to Miles.

Freddie's eyes were wide. He was shaking his head.

"It what?" Miles asked. "You look like you've..." He turned at nearly the same time Freddie wheeled back around to face his own table. Freddie quickly raised his menu, as if considering the options. John's idea of giving him long hair apparently worked, though, since Miles didn't recognize the Queen singer. When Miles turned back around, he finished, "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or an ex." 

"Nothing so simple," Brian mumbled, a knot beginning to twist around inside his stomach. He had to tell Miles the truth, he decided. He couldn't let this go on. He couldn't allow this to lead to something more.

But he didn't want it to end.

"Are you okay?" Miles asked.

Brian tried to formulate an answer. As he was doing so, though, the waiter appeared next to the table. "So sorry for the wait," he said. "It's been a little hectic tonight. Were you ready to order?"

Brian realized he hadn't actually read _any_ of the menu.

"Freddie?" Miles asked. "You know what you want?"

Freddie? How did Miles--

Oh.

Freddie peered over his shoulder, confused, as Brian tried to still the flip-flop of the butterflies in his stomach. The use of the wrong name was more jarring than Brian cared to admit.

"Uh, yeah, just some pasta with marinara," Brian said, inventing something that surely existed on the menu at an Italian restaurant. The waiter didn't seem confused, thankfully.

Miles ordered ravioli of some kind. Their waiter took the menus away. "So," he said, once they were alone again. "Are you okay?"

Brian hoped he'd forgotten the question. "Ah... yeah, fine. I was just thinking how weird it was that we both ended up being into astronomy. What are the odds?"

_Tell him, you idiot!_

"Here? In this town? Pretty low," Miles laughed. "Now if we're in the same area of study, that's just _weird._ I've been kind of getting into the idea of studying exo-planets. Stuff outside the solar system, y'know? Even past the local group. Way out."

"The big picture," Brian said, unable to hide his amusement. "Me? I'm thinkin' of writing my thesis about space dust."

Miles laughed again. The sound was like music. So quiet, and so genuine. "We'd make a great team," he said. "You can figure out all the details. I miss. Then we can plan humanity's first grand adventure to Andromeda." 

"What, just the two of us? Do you know how many people were on the team that got the first men to the moon?"

Freddie had his eyes narrowed.

"Three? Four at most," Miles said.

Brian arched his eyebrows.

And Miles pouted. "Okay, fine. Too many t'count. But you know, with technology as it is, I bet we could figure out how to..." He started ticking things off on his fingers. "Break the speed of light, mitigate time-dilation, warp time-space itself, negotiate with potentially hostile alien races, and be back home before dinner. Just the two of us."

Just the two of them.   
  
Brian snuck a glance at Freddie again, who, while trying his best to be inconspicuous, still wore a rather incredulous expression. How could either of them have known that Miles would share something so important in common with Brian?

And Brian felt helpless. He had to try to get out of this gracefully, with at least some of his dignity intact. Somehow. Maybe he could just get up and run out the door! No, that idea lacked grace entirely. He could... say he was sick? No, they were too close already, so Miles would worry, and probably make sure he got home. And then by the time they returned to the hotel, it'd be obvious that Brian wasn't sick at all.

Freddie twirled his finger in a 'hurry up!' gesture.

Brian couldn't think of a good solution, because he wanted to stay _so badly._ If he could just get through the next hour of dinner, then the movie they had planned afterward, then maybe he could just never look at Miles ever again. He could throw away the phone number and vanish.

Was that really fair, though?

"Look, maybe we can split a piece of pie," Miles said.

He reached across the table. And put his hand over Brian's.

Brian froze.  
  


\---  
  


"What did you say?" John had to make sure he heard Roger correctly. He couldn't have asked him to _cure Brian's depression_.

"You know, it's just..." Roger squirmed uncomfortably, then stood, pacing back and forth. "I can't... I can't let you switch us back if Brian's going to feel... _this..._ again. I know I seem okay right now, but I'm-- John, it's terrible."

John had some idea of what debilitating mental health issues could do to a person. As the most high-strung member of Queen, he'd had his share of panic attacks - even on stage - until he learned that alcohol sufficiently dulled his senses enough so he could perform. Not the best way of coping, sure, but he made do.

Everyone had their hangups.

"John. Please," Roger begged.

All John could think of to say was, "I can't."

"Yet!" Roger replied. "But, if you practice enough, you'll be able to--why are you shaking your head?"

Was he? John stopped, rubbing the back of his neck. "I can't just... I mean, I can't just _alter Brian._ "

Roger seemed at a loss as he stood at the foot of the bed, crestfallen, but his silence didn't last long. "You changed your grey hair! I saw you do it. And mine!" He jumped forward, tangling his fingers into John's now-blond hair. As John gave him a shove, Roger said, "It's blond now! So I know you _can."_

Roger's desperation hurt to witness. Even if his heart was in a good place, John couldn't help thinking that something about honoring the request would be fundamentally wrong. "But hair's just... hair," he said. "It doesn't make us who we are--"

"You think this... this _thing_ Brian has to deal with makes him who he is?"

In the dim light of the tiny lamp, John saw Roger's jaw flex, his chin quivering almost imperceptibly. "Rog," John said, trying in vain to think of something comforting to say.

And that's all it took. The floodgates finally broke. Roger angrily swiped a hand across his eyes, unable to resist a sniffle. "I can't even imagine... Dealing with this forever. He's my best friend, John. I've known him since we were in our teens. I never knew--"

"It doesn't define him," John said. "But it's shaped him. Does that make sense? It's just a part of who he is. A big part. More than just hair."

Roger collapsed onto the bed. He leaned forward, his arms crossed over his stomach, as he let the tears fall to the carpet. John put a comforting hand on his shoulder, encouraged when Roger didn't pull away.

"I get it," Roger said. "I know what you're saying, but this is... It's not like... Can't you just..."

He trailed off as John shook his head.

So much could go wrong if he tried. It was a thing that was tied to every part of Brian, even if it caused him pain. It made him careful, though. And empathic. A good listener. Some of his songs even came from that place of melancholy; how could John dare try to take that away? Brian's issues caused a lifelong struggle, but they also gave him a unique understanding of the human condition. He could recognize the pain of other through his own pain. He knew gentleness from his desire to be loved. And part of the reason he was such a good friend was because he instinctively recognized when someone needed a shoulder to cry on. "He wouldn't be the same person," John said. "What if... What if I just up and took away Freddie's charisma? Or your temper?"

"I could do without the temper sometimes," Roger said.

But the tears were slowing as Roger's face slowly hardened into blankness. Either he understood, or he'd be angry later. Still, John stood by his decision... They all needed the good and bad parts of themselves to be a whole person. Sometimes some people had it a little tougher, but it all added up into one whole.

What if, with a single thought, John destroyed Brian entirely?

"I'm sorry," John said.

Without another word, Roger stormed from the room.  
  


\---  
  


Brian knew his eyes must have been popping out of his head, with the way Miles ever-so-slowly removed his hand.

"Sorry," Miles said. "I thought... Sorry."

A million things went through Brian's head. He could continue the façade... Maybe he could tell Miles that he just didn't like to be touched! Then, things could go back to being _somewhat_ normal, and they could enjoy the rest of their night.

But that would just be another layer in the already sky-high lie-cake.

"I can't--I can't do this anymore." Brian said it as much to himself as to Miles. He weaved his fingers through short-cropped hair as he looked at the table. At his silverware. At the saltshaker. Anywhere but at Miles. "I'm sorry. I can't let this go farther."

"I thought it was going well," Miles said, his voice small.

Brian hated that note of dejected betrayal, because the date _had_ been going well. Too well. And if John were to fix their little problem tomorrow and set them all right again, how would Miles feel? How would Brian feel? He'd been at this threshold before, where both he and his date realized how much they had in common, and how they could easily end up in bed together, and sometimes Brian _had the worst self-control_...

What if it got that far?   
  
He couldn't do that to Miles, or Freddie, or himself. "Miles. I have to tell you something."

Freddie was staring at him, eyes wide, as he rattled off every silent gesture he could to prevent Brian from saying anything. He dragged a finger across his throat, then held up both hands, palm forward, warning Brian to _stop._ He shook his head frantically, and pointed for the door, as if encouraging Brian to just stand up and run away.

But Brian finally had his mind made up. Really, he should have done this an hour ago, even if it was a risk. "Look, I know this is hard to believe, but I'm not Freddie."

Miles narrowed his eyes, confused.

Brian looked away, leaning back in his chair. "I've been... Leading you on. Not on purpose. I mean, I really, _really_ like you, that's the problem. And it's... It's a big problem, so I can't..."

Freddie flipped his chair, scooting it next to Miles. For a moment, Miles' surprise was almost comical, and certainly affronted, until recognition dawned on his face. "John? You... Came to our date? Are you..." He reached forward, giving Freddie's hair a tug. "Are you wearing a wig?"

"I'm not. Dammit, Freddie-- Brian! Brian, I mean. Fuck, now you've got me all confused." Freddie's jaw set, and he scowled. "It was almost perfect! All you had to do was find a way out!"

"Well, what was I gonna do, Fred? I think you know where this was going." Brian's face felt hot. He knew he must have been red as a beet, though the thought of where it might have gone didn't bother him as much as it should have. He scowled right back, matching Freddie's indignance. "He has a right to know."

"I... don't know if I need to know..." Miles mumbled.

"Oh, have a little faith, darling. I would have gotten you out of it." Freddie turned his nose up, draping his arm over the back of the chair. "Unless... Unless... Oh, come off it. You couldn't have been at that point. Really?"

"Do I _really_ need to tell you how much of a libido your own body has?" Brian hissed, forgetting, momentarily, that Miles was sitting _right there._ The boy's face reddened a little, a smile playing at his lips.

"I suppose not," Freddie said, shoulders slumping. "Look, Brian, I just wanted you to understand. Maybe this was a bad idea."

Poor Miles. The smile was gone now, replaced with something between a pout and confusion. "Brian?" he asked. "The one with the curly hair."

"Usually," Brian said.

Freddie glanced at Miles, as if seeing him there for the first time. His features softened, eyebrows arching as a frown crossed his face. "Look, Bri. He's not going to believe us. He's no reason to."

But Brian had to try. He was about to break some poor guy's heart. Hell, he was about to break his own heart, as cliché as it sounded. "You know those fires, Miles? The ones on the news? Well, John--no, not him," Brian added as Miles glanced as Freddie. "John... Can do things. We didn't know it was him at first."

Miles nodded. "Yeah, I know the fires," he muttered. "Everyone does. I mean, I don't think there's anyone who hasn't seen _something..._ Related..." He put his head in his hands.

"John panicked in the fire. I think that's what made him switch us," Brian went on, his voice barely audible above the restaurant's patrons. "I'm... I'm Brian. That's Freddie."

Freddie smiled a bit, wiggling his fingers in an almost abashed greeting.

"Why?" Miles asked.

It was a question that could have meant anything. Why had John switched them? Why did he end up with this ability in the first place? But Brian knew exactly what it meant. "Freddie thought it'd help me understand. And... It did. I really like you, that's the problem." He pushed his hands against his forehead, fingernails digging into skin. "But..."

"It won't last," Miles said. His forehead was creased, his nose wrinkled as he attempted to keep himself together. It would have been the equivalent of a wrecking ball to the gut, finding that the chemistry you had with someone was only temporary. Fleeting. "I figured there was something a bit odd with you guys."

"Wait, you believe him?" Freddie asked.

It looked like Miles was trying to smile, but he couldn't. "It'd be too convoluted to be a lie, wouldn't it?" he said. "And with all the stuff going on--one of my customers had antlers, I swear t'god--I can't just... just..." He sighed. "It woulda been easier if you tol' me."

"I know," Brian said. "I'm so sorry."

"And then... There was the old guy," Miles said. "Roger. The one who was young after the second game..."

"That's John," Freddie said.

"Kind of easy t'believe whatcha said after I saw something like that." Miles stared at the table, distractedly tearing apart a napkin. "I've been tellin' myself it had to be a trick this whole time, but I know what I saw'd. At least it all fits together now. And..." His voice took on the mildest hint of bitterness, which Brian absolutely deserved. "I guess it's easier t'believe it's a problem with you, and not me."

"It's not you," Brian said gently.

"Thanks. For comin' clean, I mean," Miles said. "I know it musta been difficult."

Brian didn't deserve this kindness and understanding. Of course, it had the unfortunate side effect of taking a hammer to his already fragile heart. All he could do was sit there and stare at Miles as the waiter set their plates in front of them. As if sensing the tension, the waiter said nothing, and quickly retreated.

Miles picked up his fork and shoved the ravioli around on his plate. Brian, likewise, had lost his appetite, and could only stare at his food as he tried to prevent himself from running away. Now that the truth was out, he could think of nothing but escape.

"Don't... Tell anyone," Freddie said, as gently as possible. "I know it's all over the internet, dear, but John would shrink right into a hole and die if people knew he was part of the story."

"I won't. I would never," Miles said. "Poor John, it's gotta be rough. And I kept callin' him gramps last night an' all."

"Yeah, he was a bit sore about that," Brian said.

They fell into an uncomfortable silence, as the waiter brought Freddie's plate, too. Unlike the others, Freddie apparently had no qualms about eating, and did so, noisily, as Brian and Miles stewed in their shared misery. Brian stared at his plate, trying to figure out what they'd do as soon as one of them got up the courage to call an end to this farce and leave; likely, Freddie and Brian would just share a cab back to the hotel.

"I... Actually think it's kind of cool," Miles said.

Brian blinked, eyebrows lowering.

"Isn't it? A friend who can do stuff like this? I mean, maybe _cool_ isn't the right word. You don't seem exactly cheerful, do ya? But.. I guess... Getting someone else's perspective..." Miles pushed his plate away. Brian thought he might leave at that moment, but he didn't. Instead, he picked up his chair and carried it around the table, setting it next to his date. "I think what you tried to do was really brave."

Brian didn't feel brave. He felt like the world's biggest jerk.

But Miles still leaned over, resting one hand on Brian's cheek, eyes asking for permission. Despite his earlier reluctance, and despite the fact that Freddie was _right there,_ Brian nodded.

And Miles kissed him, for just a second. Then it was two, and Brian pulled him just a little closer. Then it was three, and Freddie was uncomfortably clearing his throat and turning away.

But if Brian couldn't have a relationship, at least he could have this moment, dammit, before everything went right-side-up again.


	13. A Cautionary Tail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's not a typo. Also! John's playing Ultima IV: Quest of the Avatar, by the way. Never did figure how to get out of those prison cells. :(

The terrible laptop might have been decent for Brian's research, but it sure didn't like to run games. John did manage to find a DOS environment emulator to play one of his old favorites, though, and tried to get it to cooperate while he waited for the others to return.

Meanwhile, Roger pouted nearby, his legs draped over the arm of the chair. Occasionally, he'd make a pitiful noise, as if to alert John to the fact that he was still there.

"No, Rog," he said, as gently as he could, despite his growing annoyance - both at Roger, and at the jalopy of a computer.  
  
Every time John tried to move the avatar around on the screen, the amount of lag increased exponentially, until he had to wait whole seconds between making another move. Eventually, he found himself imprisoned in a three-by-three jail cell, with no obvious escape, and no idea how he'd gotten there.

There was a man in the cell next to him, with whom John attempted to communicate. The non-player character only replied that he'd been in the same cell for the last five years. Wonderful.

He searched for an escape. Loose bricks. Anything. He tried to advance the time by sleeping. It seemed he was stuck. Forever.

He swore.

"Serves you right," Roger growled.

"Y'don't even know what happened!" John replied, as he directed his avatar to flail around the screen in what could only be described as an enraged stupor.

"I don't need to," Roger said, sticking out his tongue.

"Well, if you'd gotten a better computer, I definitely wouldn't be in this mess."

As soon as the words left him, John felt the slight wave of exhaustion that typically came from using his power. It took him a moment to figure out what he'd done _now,_ but as the computer's fans stopped running at their highest speed, John noticed the conspicuous lack of lag on the screen. It occurred to him that he'd fixed his problem. "Huh," he muttered. "Rog, I think I've accidentally upgraded Matilda."

"Miranda," Roger snapped. "At least get her name right."

John sighed. Evidently, this problem wasn't going away with time, as he hoped. He closed the laptop and turned his attention to Roger. "I have to draw the line somewhere, Rog," he said. Didn't he? Even if he could fix it, he couldn't just go around changing the fundamentals of someone's very existence.

Perhaps John received this ability for a reason. Not because he'd be good at using it, but because he'd be good at _not_ using it. Restraint was a trait that Roger did not possess.

Roger didn't reply.

John could see why his friend was so upset. After all, trading a disease back to his best friend must have felt as bad as literally stabbing him in the back. And John couldn't make Roger understand why taking that disease away would have been a _bad thing._ Roger hadn't dealt with it his whole life, though. He hadn't learned.

John knew, though. He knew that his anxiety, as crippling as it was sometimes, made him the first to warn the others to be careful. Sometimes it made him pessimistic. Even mean. But his reluctance to do most of the things that the others would rush headlong into had been a boon for the band, and John wouldn't surrender it for anything.

Okay, perhaps he'd consider it. John had to admit that the idea of ridding himself of a problem that sometimes rendered him non-verbal sounded heavenly. But then who'd tell the others to stop being a bunch of idiots?

He had to make Roger understand.

Tearing a scrap of paper from the hotel's complimentary notepad, he began to write. 

True to form, Roger couldn't help his curiosity. He sat up, trying to peer over John's shoulder, but John quickly hid his scrawlings under an arm. "Nope. You'll have to wait."

"C'mon, what are you writing?" Roger asked.

"Do you still want to help me practice?"

Roger expression fell somewhere between dubious and intrigued. He didn't answer, but neither did he seem averse to the idea. Good.

"I've got an idea," John said. "If you still want to help." He went back to writing, intermittently moving his shoulder to block Roger's view.

"Why are you writing it, though?" Roger finally gave up, sitting back in the chair. "You've never written it before. You've always just kind of..." He threw his hands up, fingers splayed. "Poof, done."

John had to make sure he got this perfect, though, or he wouldn't be able to undo it later. And that could end up being a problem, considering the magnitude of what he wanted to do. "Let's just say... I'm trying something a bit more complicated."

"Are you going to--"

"I'm not going to fix Brian."

Roger narrowed his eyes, though they still held a spark of his natural curiosity. He made a grab for the paper. John, anticipating Roger's desperation, pulled the paper out of reach just in time, holding it under the desk and out of Roger's line of sight. "No, Rog! Look, I can't make a point if you know what I'm doing before I do it!"

"You and your _points,_ " Roger growled. He leaned back, crossing his arms. "Fine."

"You want to help?" John asked.

Roger stuck out his bottom lip in a pout, but nodded all the same.

"Good. Okay." John checked the paper again, then double-checked to make sure he'd covered everything. Every possible loophole or sidestep. Everything that could potentially go wrong. Every little nuance. He even made sure he corrected any spelling errors. Though not completely satisfied, he looked over his shoulder at Roger, who waited impatiently, his irritation replaced with anticipation.

"It's not going to hurt, is it?" he asked.

"I hope not," was the only thing John could really say.

Roger pressed his lips together, his eyes reflecting a touch of nervousness. "Well, get on with it, then, before I change my mind."

John read the paper over one more time before closing his eyes. Though he tried not to physically reach out with his hand this time, he found his fingers curling around the paper beneath them, connecting him with his words. Once more, John formed a picture of his ability in his head.

Vines. Tendrils. Filigree. No, the image resolved into something else--something much more appropriate, John thought. Perhaps altering Miranda gave him the idea to see the lines as a delicate circuitry, stretching through the dark, arching from point to point and directing his energy in a jagged line. Amplifying it at every turn, until it reached its destination. Its purpose.

John saw Roger as a light in the dark - a being made up of the same circuitry, which spun around his limbs and through his heart, up into his head. This time, John would perform more than a simple physical change. He pushed the tiny wires of his own consciousness right into Roger's mind.

It took time to find what he was looking for. And while he couldn't hear Roger's thoughts, John could sense the frenetic pulse of his mind, always flashing from one idea to another. Never quiet.

It was incredible. But with exhaustion creeping in, John had to finish his experiment before he passed out. Finding the memories he needed, he executed his plan with a single twist of thought.

Roger cried out, jumping out of the chair in surprise. Spinning around in a circle, he knocked a handful of trinkets off the coffee table with his newly-acquired tail.

"Whoa. What the _fuck. Whoa."_ Roger stared over his shoulder at the thing, which was long - at least as long as he was tall - and tufted at the end, like the tail of a kangaroo rat. John had always liked those little critters.

"You gave me a... a... Is that a tail?" Roger asked. "What the hell did you give me a tail for?!"

It was the moment of truth. John asked, "Do you want me to take it away?"

Roger started to answer, then his face blanked, eyes fixed on nothing as he realized, "No. No, why don't I want you to? It's like I--Like I've always--"

"Please don't panic," John said.

"I know this wasn't here two seconds ago!" Unfortunately, Roger panicked as he spun again. John had to duck out of the way to avoid being hit with the tail. "But you can't take it away. It'd be like... Letting you cut off my arm! That's... That's how I... John, what'd you do to me?"  


John looked away, staring at the carpet. As much as he meant to do it all on purpose, he still felt guilty. "I told you, I was trying to make a point."

He did glance up long enough to see the spectrum of emotion play across Roger's face. Disbelief, then a brief second of outrage. His eyes widened as he realized how far John had advanced with his ability, then they wandered off to one side as realization dawned.

"Are you mad?" John asked.

"Well, of course I am! You... you...!" Roger gestured to his head, unable to come up with a word to describe what John had done. He crossed his arms as his tail twitched in irritation. "Shut up. You win, okay? I get it. I get why you can't fix Brian." His shoulders slumped, the anger on his face melting away. "This is... a little scary, you know."

He flopped back down in the chair and yelped in pain, immediately jumping back to his feet.

"Carefully," John said, smiling. "It's part of you now."

"Yeah, I see," Roger muttered, sitting again, careful not to crush the tail. He rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. "How'd you make me think it's always been there?"

John held up the slip of paper. "Carefully. Getting rid of it is going to be more difficult, since you--"

Roger protectively grabbed the tail and hugged it to his chest, then realized how stupid he must have looked. He scowled.

"Exactly," John said. "I'll do it when you're asleep."

"Great. Now I'll never _sleep,_ " Roger said. "Thanks."

Oops.

John did notice that Roger continued to hold it protectively, though. The tufted end draped over the back of the chair. It'd be cute, if John didn't know he'd actually meddled with Roger's memories.

The exhaustion caught up with him. After a second use of his power, and with something so intricate and extensive, John trembled as he sat back in his chair. He felt empty and cold, even through his proud sense of accomplishment. If only he had the energy to make Roger fall asleep, so he could rid Brian's body of the unwanted appendage before the others returned!

A tail might be just a tad difficult to explain.

"You feeling all right?" Roger asked, finally letting go of his tail.

"Tired. Again," John said. It seemed to be related not only to the number of times he _did something,_ but also to how demanding that something was. Though not falling over like last time, it felt as if he'd been awake for several days. "It's not getting easier."

"So you wasted your power on proving a point about something I woulda eventually gotten over," Roger said, though John noticed the gentle smile, and returned it.

"You're not mad at me anymore." John let his head dip, until it rested on the closed laptop.

"No."

"Worth it, then."   
  
"John..."

"I'm so tired, Rog," John said, closing his eyes. "I'm tired, and scared. And I'm worried I won't be able to fix this. I don't want you to be mad at me, even if it's for a few days. I just... Needed you to see."

He could sleep for a while, he realized. Right here, his head down on the desk. As uncomfortable as he was, John would wake up after an hour or two, and he'd be able to get rid of the tail without anyone else knowing about it. The valuable lesson would be learned, and it could be Roger's and John's secret.

John heard muffled talking from the hallway. It almost could have lulled him to sleep, except the voices stopped moving somewhere around the door, becoming more and more familiar as they chattered quietly. When he realized he was hearing his own voice, it could only mean that Brian and Freddie were back early.

Which meant the date had not gone well.

Which meant they were out of time.

Roger was already on his feet. "They're back? Already?"

"How long have they been gone?" John asked. "It couldn't have been that long--"

"They left just before you woke up!" Roger's tail thrashed wildly, nervously, sweeping across the coffee table again and knocking off anything he hadn't hit before. A couple coasters went flying. A cup of water splashed to the floor. "It's only been a couple hours--what am I gonna do about...?"

Now quite awake with the rush of adrenaline, John leapt out of the chair, just managing to grab the television before Roger's tail sent that careening to the floor, too. "Calm _down._ That thing's dangerous!"

" _You could have made it shorter!"_ Roger snapped.

"This was funnier!"

"Get rid of it!" Roger said. "Ah, shit, don't! I mean, you have to, don't you?" He whined, hugging the tail protectively again. "You gotta, though. Brian and Freddie will--well, they'll definitely notice it!"

John couldn't do that to Roger, not without absolute confidence that he'd also be able to reverse the mental alterations he made, too. Otherwise, it really would be no better than chopping off an arm or a leg. Besides, John couldn't concentrate through his mild panic, nor could he find the paper on which he'd written his instructions. "I'm _exhausted,"_ he said, which was true. "Do you want me to fuck it up?"

"What am I gonna do, then!?"

"Hide it!"

" _HIDE IT?"_ Roger demanded. "It's twelve feet long!"

The door opened.

John and Roger froze in place, conspicuously standing in the middle of the common room, as Brian entered and trudged over to the couch. He flopped down on it, pulling his knees to his chest.

He looked miserable.

"Well, it was still nice of him to drive us back, I think," Freddie said, following just behind.

"It wasn't nice," Brian grumbled. "He just felt responsible. It'd serve us both right if he left us there."

Roger's tail was mostly still, though the end still twitched, which should have drawn _someone's_ attention. Fortunately, both Brian and Freddie were too engaged in their conversation to notice much of anything. "Should I even ask how it went?" Roger finally tried.

Brian peered out from the crook of his arm, grimacing. His eyes were red.

"It..." Freddie began. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have made him go. It... went well. Too well."

"You shouldn't have," Brian replied, his voice cold and heavy. He slumped, though, his expression relaxing. "I'm not mad about that, though, Freddie. I mean, you got what you wanted, didn't you? I understand now."

"I didn't want you to understand _like this,"_ Freddie said.

Brian rubbed at his eyes, gaze fixed on his feet. "I panicked, John. I told him everything."

A cold prickle began at the back of John's neck, working its way down his spine and into his limbs. "You _what?"_

"He won't tell," Freddie said, resting a hand on John's shoulder. "I'm sure of it. John, he was so understanding..."

John tried to be angry. He didn't want anyone else to know, in hopes that when all this was finished, he could go back to being his boring, ordinary self. The more people who knew, the more of a chance the knowledge could spread, which meant he could end up in the spotlight, which would just lead to more stress...

But he couldn't find his anger, even in Roger's body. Not with Brian looking so distraught.

John sat down next to Brian, frowning. "I'm sure you had a good reason," he sighed.

He'd seen Freddie this upset before, of course. Freddie didn't have much luck when it came to love. Still, Brian wore the disappointment differently, as if he'd witnessed someone throwing a bag of kittens down a well, or something as equally horrifying. Freddie always just kind of shrugged it off.

"I feel stupid," Brian said.

"Stupid?" John asked. He glanced at Roger, who was inching his way toward the curtains--a perfect place to hide the tail until John could take care of it. He was moving so damnably slow, though!

"Stupid," Brian said again, and declined to elaborate.

"They had a lot in common," Freddie clarified. "A _scary_ amount, dear. They were talking about stars from the moment they sat down, I think."

"And I didn't get up and leave." Brian closed his eyes, leaning his head on the back of the couch. "And now I'm... And Miles is..."

"Well, maybe..." Freddie said. "Maybe John can, uh, make you... I mean, that is, if he can do things, maybe he can make you like Miles? Under normal circ--"

"No!" John said, at the same time Brian and Roger exclaimed similar dissent.

Roger added, "I can tell you _so many reasons_ why that's a bad idea, but let's just start with this one."

He flicked his tail, raising it from the floor to offer a little wave.

"Well, I don't see why not--" Freddie started, then his eyes fell upon the tail. He did a double-take, pushing his hair out of his eyes as if it was obscuring his vision. He pointed, looking at John for some kind of explanation. Patiently, John closed his eyes.

"What the _fuck?"_ Freddie said.

Brian remained oblivious. "It's just a bad idea, messing with someone's mind, I think. I mean, look at us already, Freddie. We're all--"

"No." Freddie said, reaching for Brian's head and physically turning it to look at Roger. "I mean. What. The. Fuck."

Brian's eyes narrowed.

He tilted his head.

"Is that a tail?" he asked. "Why--what is--why does Roger have a--Why do _I_ have a tail?"

"It was... practice," John said. "Uh, to see if I could make Roger believe..."

"That I'd always had a tail. And it worked." The tail flicked as if possessed of a mind of its own, sending the telephone crashing to the floor. Roger didn't seem to notice.

"But why?" Brian asked.

John and Roger looked at each other, the latter shaking his head just a little. And John agreed. Brian didn't need to know everything that led to Roger's possession of a tail. He certainly didn't need to know how badly his depression was affecting Roger.

"I wanted to know if he could," Roger said. "It was... uh... we were bored, a bit, since you two were gone, and I wanted to see if he could make me believe it. It's... let me tell you, it's weird. Because I remember having it and _not_ having it. So, probably... don't let him mess around in your memories. It's not a good idea."

"I didn't think it was," Brian said. 

"I guess not," Freddie agreed. He chuckled, though, gesturing at Roger again. "I mean, it was a pretty appropriate lesson for Roger, though, don't you think?" The laugh went from vaguely amused to deviously cheerful. "Don't you think, Brian?"

Despite himself, Brian arched a quizzical eyebrow.

"It's not funny, Fred," Roger said.

"It is. Think about it!" By this time, Freddie was near hysterics... So much so that he could barely squeak out: "Roger--Roger _Tail-_ or!"

Roger covered his face with one hand as if frustrated, but he couldn't hide the smile.

Brian rolled his eyes. 

Freddie lost it, collapsing next to John on the couch, and John groaned, putting his head in his hands.


	14. Onward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John starts trying to put them all right again, at the expense of his own well-being.

When John woke, he couldn't remember the exact details of his dream. He thought someone had been talking to him, though he couldn't recall the words, or even the gist of the conversation. Even the tiniest details vanished.

Except the voice--its tone, anyway. John couldn't decide if the voice comforted him or frightened him; the more dreams he had, however, the more real the mysterious entity became.

Rolling out of bed, he steadied himself on feet that didn't want to cooperate. He could have so easily fallen back onto the mattress to sleep for another few hours, but he slogged toward the common room anyway. He needed to get rid of Roger's tail.

Strangely, the television was on, even though everyone else should have been asleep hours ago. Roger's face appeared around the back of the chair as he tried to spin himself around, but since the four-legged chair wasn't built for spinning, he ultimately re-strategized. Standing, he manually turned it around, causing the feet to thmp-thmp-thmp against the carpet. John cringed; surely the noise would wake the others.

Once Roger had the chair facing properly, he sat, draped his tail across his lap, and started petting the tufted end like it was some sort of demented cat. "You're too late, Mister Bond."

John sighed. "Rog, don't make this difficult. You're going to have to fall asleep eventually."

"Lies," Roger said. "I can stay up forever, if I want to."

Really, John could just think it away at any point, if he wanted to, but he had the feeling that the instant Roger felt that touch on his mind, he'd do something stupid. Like tackling the person who was trying to fix everything. That had the potential to make things worse than they already were.

John didn't like this game. And a game it was - Roger could make a game out of _anything._ "Fine," John grumbled. "Then I'm going back to bed."

"Meow," Roger said, speaking for the tail.

"You're an _idiot,_ Taylor," John said. Thankfully, his back was turned, so Roger couldn't see his smile. "Brian's not going to want it when I figure out how to switch you back."

Interested now, Roger stood, abandoning the farce. "Yeah, how's that going?"

Not well, John wanted to say. Abysmal might have been a better word for it. As much as he'd tried using his ability in recent days, he couldn't figure out how to stave off the exhaustion. Fear of failure made him hesitant to try something so huge; something instinctive told him it wouldn't be as straightforward as aging himself, or fixing Freddie's ankle, or giving Roger a tail. "It's... Not the same as the other stuff I've done. There's something else to it. Like a big gap in know-how, I guess."

"Have you tried?"

"Well... No."

Roger crouched down, picking up some of the coasters he'd flung about earlier. The tail curled around his feet as he waddled from one to the other, tossing them up on the table. "Then how do you know you can't?"

The question was fair, but John couldn't adequately answer it. He couldn't explain to someone who lacked his strange ability how he was starting to intricately understand it, and how he could sense the growth answers to the many questions he had. Sometimes, those answers danced far out of his reach, waiting for him to phrase his inquiries properly.   
  
He just knew he lacked the experience. Perhaps he'd accessed that component of his power once, in a moment of desperation, but now...?

In the flickering light of the TV, John noticed a curl-up lump huddled against one arm of the couch. "So, Brian never went to bed?" he asked.

"You're changing the subject," Roger replied.

"So astute," John said.

"No. He never went to bed. I think he's asleep, though."

The soft glow highlighted the scratchy folds of the blanket wrapped around Brian's arms. His feet stuck out the other end, toes buried between the cushions for warmth. "I'm awake," he mumbled. "Kind of. John, don't listen to Roger. Never listen to Roger."

Though Roger said nothing, his tail betrayed his anger, swishing across the coffee table and once again knocking all the coasters to the floor.

Brian noted the spike of temper. "All I'm saying," he went on, eyes fixed on Roger, "is, you can do it when you're ready. Don't _rush."_

"Well, I'm not suggesting that he _rush,"_ Roger said. "Just... hurry it up a bit."

Brian groaned. He turned just enough so that John could see the wet tracks still present on his cheeks.

Unfortunately, John's hesitance to dive right into something so complicated had already put Brian into an uncomfortable predicament. If he'd just tried to fix everything earlier, the date with Miles never would have happened, and Brian wouldn't be so heartbroken, draped across the couch like a dejected basset hound.

John clearly had to do something, or everyone would end up irrevocably miserable. "I _have_ been thinking..." he started, wandering toward the kitchenette. He filled a glass of water for Brian and returned to the couch, holding it out as he sat down. Brian took it, then immediately stuck his toes under John's leg for warmth.

He tried to set the glass aside, but John handed it back to him. "You've been crying all night. You need to drink something."

"You sure you don't want ice cream?" Roger squeaked.

Brian stared at the glass, finally taking a sip. "Not this time, Rog."

Roger settled back in the chair and looked away. That's when John realized - Roger hadn't been out here waiting to thwart the removal of his tail... He'd been taking care of Brian. The exhaustion showed on both their faces, even in the dim light.

"Right... Well, I've been thinking," John said again. "While I try to figure it all out, you know. What if I try to switch two of us at a time? I think I can stay awake long enough to at least make that happen." He didn't mention that he thought something was still _missing,_ even beyond his ability to stay conscious. He felt like part of his power still remained locked behind a wall, inaccessible. "I can start with me and Freddie."

"Then Freddie'll still be in the wrong body," Brian said.

"I know. But... What if my power's tied to my actual body? Sure, I took it with me to _this_ body. I guess I'd have to, wouldn't I? But if I'm back in my own body, maybe it'll spark something."

Their lack of a reaction spoke volumes.

"If... If I'm myself again, you know? It could... Make it easier to fix everyone else."

It was all he had. But they both stared at him uneasily, as if the idea had no merit. He couldn't very well snap his fingers and make everything okay again, could he? What did they want from him? "And, uh..." John tried. "If I can't do it all at once, I can have a nap afterward, then I guess I'd switch you and Roger."

Brian shook his head, just enough for John to spot it.

He was fucking _trying,_ dammit. He felt the flash behind his eyes, but before he could remove himself from the situation, the anger came bubbling from his throat in a torrent. "I don't know what you want me to fucking say! One of you doesn't want me to try at all, and the other wants it done _yesterday!_ I can do this! I hate that you're giving me that--that _look,_ like I don't have a clue what I'm--Do you know what I've been through the last few weeks? If I can get us all back to the right bodies, we can worry about the fact that we don't have a _fucking house!"_

Brian shied back, eyes wide.

"Yeah, you remember that? _Idiots._ We're homeless. I have to fucking fix this. If I don't--How are we going to tour? Did you think of that? Or record an album, or--Visit our fucking families! Everything is harder right now. Everything. Don't shake your head at me!"

Conversely, as if he wasn't listening to John at all, Roger flicked his tail upward, grabbing the tufted end and making it hiss, like a cat.

And John couldn't ignore the absurdity of it. It was just enough of a distraction to quell the anger; he couldn't remember exactly what he said, but he did remember a couple less-than-friendly words. "I'm... I'm sorry, it's just that I..." He trailed off, shaking his head. At least Roger knew how to calm that terrifying rage.

Freddie's door opened, and he poked his head out, brows low over his eyes. He didn't say anything at first, though his troubled eyes leveled on John.

"Sorry. Sorry, Freddie, I didn't mean to wake you up." John rubbed his temples as the anger continued to dissipate. He could feel himself breaking, like a brick wall eroding over time. The longer this went on, the more of a sense of urgency he felt--either prompted by the dreams, or by the constant trials his friends were forced to negotiate. He didn't want to rush things, but the others were wearing down just as much as John was.

"Honestly, I'd almost forgotten the house," Freddie muttered.

"It's not that we don't think you can do it... Eventually..." Brian said. "We're worried about you, John. Roger and I were talking, before you got up..."

"I thought you should give it a go," Roger said. "But if you don't think you can fix it all at once, then maybe not. I mean, every time you pass out, you wake up lookin' worse than before."

Freddie closed the door to his room, yawning, and leaned against the wall. "That's it, dear. Of course we all want you to fix it, but not at the expense of yourself."

John felt stupid for losing his temper.

"Something's just... missing," John said. "When I do this stuff, it's like I'm... I don't know. Lost. But I think if I do it one at a time, I'll have enough resources. I'd like to try."

He tried not to pay attention to the worried glances they threw at each other, as if privy to a conversation John couldn't hear. He knew they had his best interests at heart, but their lack of faith irritated him. Not enough to push him into a tantrum again, but enough that his jaw clenched, and his hands tightened into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms. Maybe they were right, though--if he gave it a few days, maybe a well-timed epiphany would give him the answers he so desperately needed to make it all work.

"I know you're nervous," John said. "But I've practiced _plenty_ doing other things. I... really think I need to start working on the actual problem now. It's asking a lot, I know. I wish _this..."_ He gestured at them all, each looking through the wrong set of eyes, "Hadn't been the first thing I ever did. But it is. And it'll drive me crazy if I don't try fixing it."

They were silent for a long time. Then Brian sat forward on the couch and said, "Well, at least we'll know."

Taking a deep breath, John slid off the couch and onto the floor, shuffling on his knees to the opposite side of the coffee table. He sat cross-legged and tried to steel himself, though his nerves were so frayed they were making him dizzy with anticipation, or terror. Probably both. "Okay. Freddie." 

"What? Me?"

"Yeah. You first."

Freddie pushed off the wall, though he spared a glance backward at it, as if it could swallow him up and protect him from whatever fate awaited him. John could understand his reluctance, since this would be the most difficult thing he'd ever tried. So much rested on this attempt - if he succeeded, it could pave the way for a deeper understanding of his ability. If he failed... He could catastrophically damage his own mind, and Freddie's.

But without an instruction manual for these powers, John would never figure it out without trying. Maybe he'd botch things a bit, but he had to believe that he wouldn't destroy them both.

"Uh. Do I need to do anything?" Freddie asked.

"Just sit," John said. Freddie hesitantly settled himself on the floor.

This did feel like attempting to jump from tricycle-riding proficiency all the way to unicycling without the necessary series of steps in between. After his breakthrough with Roger, though, John recognized the bare slivers of confidence on the edges of his mind. He could do this. With practice, he could even excel at it.

He blocked everything out. The noise, the flickering light from the television, the concerns that this would all fail calamitously... Closing his eyes, he raised his hand, holding it in the air as he searched for Freddie's personal circuitry. It burned bright, like Roger's; John could easily integrate with it, though he still felt something lacking.

Opening his eyes, he set his hand down in his lap. He couldn't puzzle it out.

"It was a good try--" Freddie started.

"No, hang on," John said.

This time, he set his hand on Freddie's shoulder. Perhaps a physical connection would help, even if John hadn't been touching any of them the first time it happened. Hell, he didn't even know where they were in the house at the time, which made him wonder how he found them at all.

Something nudged at his perception. He'd asked an important question, but not the _right one._ The answer flitted just out of his reach.

Why? How did he locate them?

No. He had to stay in the present. He had to concentrate.

He could sense Freddie's own personal pattern of twists and bends - a shining labyrinth of wires and shimmering pulses of energy. Trying to forge a deeper connection, John dug his nails into the skin of his friend's neck, but it was of little use. Freddie flinched, causing the circuits to shy away from John's touch. There were cracks between some of the pathways where energy ebbed and flowed like the ocean, but John couldn't get a fix on it, nor even assign a name to what he saw. Every time he tried to focus on it, it would dance back into the corners of his vision, where it would vanish.

He could feel himself sweating with the effort of maintaining the link between them. He knew he should have passed out long ago, but he held on. Somehow, he held on. It was as if he pulled energy from elsewhere to bolster himself, but he sensed nothing of where it came from, nor what it was made of. Frustratingly, this energy also had itself anchored into a deep darkness where John couldn't go. If only he could cut the ties, he could amplify that power and use it for his own endeavors!

He was running on fumes.

And he still didn't understand.

The new mystery could wait. Turning his attention to Freddie's mind, John attempted to locate its point of origin, so he could sever it and scoop it out... Except he found that it intrinsically attached to every other circuit within. Separating it would take an infinite amount of time, which John didn't have. It would be like untangling a knot the size of England with both hands tied behind his back... And he was already tired.

Tears streamed down his cheeks from the effort. The mysterious tide of energy slipped away as nausea built in his stomach, obscuring the circuitry.

 _Come on,_ he said to himself.

There? What was that?

The clock ticked toward zero. He grasped the very ends of the mysterious source of energy, tying himself in with it, embedding himself like a knife--

Freddie cried out in pain and terror.

The connection between them shattered. For the first time, John felt himself forcefully ejected from his trance--and with such power that he was physically thrown backward by Freddie's mental anguish. He tried to steady himself, but with no energy left, he pitched backward, striking his head on one leg of Roger's chair.

His vision swam. Freddie appeared in the darkening haze for just a moment and gave him a shake, to no avail.  
  


\---

  
He woke in his room.

He couldn't remember how he'd gotten there, nor what led him to fall asleep. The details of his very life were fuzzy, in fact, and he was having trouble remembering anything at all. His name only occurred to him after many minutes of staring at the shadows flittering across his ceiling.

John.

Right.

The door was propped open with a trash can. John could hear the TV from the common room, though the volume was too low to make out any words. Now and then, he'd hear actual voices. Though unfamiliar at first, he eventually remembered that his bandmates--his best friends--were here with him. They'd be... concerned.

That's right. He tried to switch himself with Freddie, and it had gone badly. John still felt the feedback from the attempt, like a ringing deep in his skull.

Damn! He came so close to figuring everything out, too, though the answers still escaped him. He needed to try again! It all made sense now, the more he thought about it. He couldn't simply scoop Freddie's consciousness from one body and put it into another one. He had to follow certain protocol.

But... He could do this over and over and over again if he had to, until he learned.

Until he understood.

He must.

The second John tried to move, a sharp pain radiated from his head through his whole body. He almost screamed, it hurt so much, but he clamped his jaw together at the last moment. The resulting sound was a squelched groan. Immediately, two faces peered into the dark room, followed by a third. All three were silhouetted against the bright light from beyond the door.

"You all right, Deaky?" Roger asked.

No, he wanted to say. He still felt heavy and tired. Rolling over onto his side, John squinted so he could see his friends. "Mostly," he muttered.

"We were about to call someone," Brian said. "We thought maybe you--well, you've been out for--How long's it been, Freddie?"

Freddie disappeared from the door, then called out, "Fourteen hours. Almost. Just short of."

Fuck.

And yet he found himself saying, "I have to try again."

Two of them looked at each other--Brian and Roger, probably. Then the latter reached over and very deliberately flipped on the overhead light by the door. John's head exploded with pain. He saw stars; as if by instinct, he burrowed back under the covers, growling nonsensically until Roger switched the light off.

"No, you aren't _trying again,_ " Brian said. "Look what happened to you!"

"Then how'm I gonna fix it, Bri?" John asked. "I was _so close._ With another minute or two, I could have done it. And I can be more careful."

He had no idea how to be more careful, honestly, since he thought he was being careful all along. And for all his care, he ended up with a fourteen-hour dose of exhaustion and a possible concussion.

Well, he could fix one thing, anyway.

Reaching into his own mind, John gently tweaked blood vessels and tissue, physically healing whatever caused his head to hurt so terribly. He felt such relief, he almost allowed himself to fall asleep again. In fact, with the weariness that came from using his ability, he actually drifted off for a few seconds.

"John?" Brian tried.

"I'm awake," he mumbled, fighting off the sleepiness. "I can fix it. I can."

"You've only been doing this for a couple weeks," Roger said. "You can't expect to just... get it."

"Fuck off," John said. He hadn't meant to, though his frustration seemed to prompt the desire to engage in unbridled profanity. Continuing to curse under his breath, he pushed himself up on his elbows and reached out again, delving into the circuitry of the first mind he found. He had to understand - that's what the others didn't get. He had to untangle to purpose behind that strange energy...

Then Roger emitted a cry of surprise, which was quickly followed by a yelp of pained contempt from Freddie.

"He hit me with that bloody _tail!"_ Freddie snapped. "God dammit, Roger!"

Peeking out from under the covers, John could see Roger's tail waving angrily behind him.

"Get out of my head, you arse!" Roger snapped. "And get some fucking sleep already!"

"I have to... understand..." John muttered. And even though he'd been sleeping for fourteen hours, he still felt himself drifting off again. His elbows gave out under him; his head hit the pillow with a comfortable _whumph._

How could he hope to put things right if he couldn't stay awake long enough to even try?

"He seem a little... _driven..._ to you?" Brian asked.

"Too right, darling," Freddie replied.

Even though Roger weighed in as well, John could no longer discern words from the conversation, as he crept back into an unwelcome slumber.


	15. The Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John figures out what he's been missing.

"It feels... Weird," Roger said as Brian set the carryout bags on the coffee table. "Like, I know he's there, but he's not doing anything."

At least the tail was gone. John was right -- Roger'd fallen asleep at some point, and when he woke... Well, he barely realized it had ever been there at all. And yet, he still felt a strange sense of something being missing.

"I'm just searching," John said. Roger felt the contact subside as John opened his eyes. "Though I oughtn't've. There's nothing in there."

Brian chuckled.

"I'll have you know," Roger said, "That I'm saving space for all the important stuff, like football scores and girls' phone numbers." He wouldn't let anyone know he was insulted, dammit! Actually, he wasn't, mostly because a cogent John was much less frightening that the unintelligible John from the night before. If John was making jokes, it meant he was okay.

"At least take a break to eat, dear?" Freddie asked, pawing through the bags. "It'll help you get your energy up, if you insist on trying over and over."

"But I'm--" John started, but shrank back as three pairs of eyes stared him down. "Fine. Fine, you're right. I should eat. Fine."

As if encouraged by John's interest, Brian knelt next to the coffee table and carefully removed the take-out boxes, arranging them on the table in an unnecessarily presentable spread. Roger would much rather just dig in as he wanted, though he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen John actually eat... "You get first dibs, Deaks," he said.

For a moment, John looked worse for wear, his bloodshot blue eyes staring at the table, confused. "Oh, it's Chinese."

Brian deflated. "Sorry, I thought you'd like it."

John shook his head. "Oh, it's--great. I do. Like it, I mean. I love it. I just... I had to catch up. It's perfect, Bri. I'm just tired." He reached out for the remaining bag in Brian's hand, and pawed through it, before coming up with a box. "This is good. This is great."

He seemed so distracted. But since he'd made his selection, all bets were off, and Roger snapped up his favorite before Freddie could get to it.

"If he eats all the sesame chicken, I'll kill him," Freddie muttered, glaring. "I'll throw 'im out a window, I will!"

"Let's stop talking about killing each other," Brian said, pulling the thin, white box out of Roger's hands and passing it to Freddie. Roger stuck out his tongue, finding a box full of fried rice and a pair of chopsticks. Instead of using them properly, he held both of them together, and used the wide end like a spoon so he could shovel food into his mouth.

"So uncouth," Freddie admonished.

Then Brian said, "John? All you have is plain white rice."

"Yeah, it's about all I can stomach at the moment." He held out his hand, and Freddie passed him a pair of chopsticks.

"It's making you sick?" Brian asked. "What you're doing?"

John hesitated, then nodded. If it were possible, John seemed even more worn out than before. His shoulders sagged and his eyelids drooped... But at least he was eating. Slowly - just a few grains at a time - but he was eating.

Roger set the fried rice aside and checked the boxes until he found one filled with vegetables. Mostly cabbage and carrots, it shouldn't cause too much stomach upset. He hoped. "At least have a couple," Roger said.

John held out his box. Roger tipped a few carrots into it.

"Can we at least call a moratorium on you trying to _do things,_ just for the rest of the night?" Brian asked, his voice as gentle as possible, despite the worry.

"I'm so close to figuring out what I'm feeling, though," John said. "It's the thing that's missing. If I can just... See it clearly for a _second,_ I can... Well, it's the key to everything, I think."

"Maybe resting will help you figure it out faster," Brian suggested.

"I don't think so. It's--"

"John."

John looked up.

Brian wore a stern expression, which just managed to skirt around anger without diverting into disappointment. "You need. To stop. You're hurting yourself... You already look like a skeleton. How are you going to fix this if you're dead?"

His words hit home. For the first time, John looked shocked, rather than simply baffled. "I look like a--"

"That's what happens when you don't eat, darling." Freddie held out the box of chicken, and poured a couple pieces into John's own container.

He stared into the box for a long time, before rubbing his hand across his face in exasperation. Roger thought he might set the food aside and ignore everyone anyway, because that's just what John did. Especially when he had his mind so set on something.

With a purposely loud sigh, John tucked in.  
  


\---

  
Brian stayed away for most of the next day, doing House Stuff, as he called it. He seemed to have shrugged off his funk, or was at least doing something to counteract his disappointment.

With Freddie and Roger gone, too, though, John had no one to practice on. If he closed his eyes, he could easily feel out the circuitry of the people in the suite down the hall, and just above him on the top floor, and even the couple sitting out in the parking lot... But he couldn't use them. Rather, he wouldn't, even if he could delve into their minds and try to figure out how they worked. Their business was theirs. Not his.

John wrinkled his nose, narrowing his eyes as he realized the real reason no one was here. They did it on purpose, he bet. To make him rest. How did they expect him to figure it out if he couldn't explore the missing element? He'd already mastered the small stuff as much as he could; it helped him understand his limits, and he had a feeling there was a way to break through those limits. He'd done it once, somehow, so he knew it had to be possible, but he couldn't do it with the others absent.

Staring down into his mug, he easily changed the liquid within from coffee, to water, to tea, to motor oil, to soda, and back to coffee. Minor things like that were getting increasingly simpler, though he still felt the touch of exhaustion afterward. If he gave himself time between using his power, though, he could recharge without falling asleep. And it seemed to recharge faster when he was in the company of others.

A random observation. With no one else in the room, he allowed his exhaustion to carry him under once again, into a deep sleep.  
  


\---

  
John could see his circuitry extending into the lava like some giant, terrifying machine. He barely even resembled himself anymore, though in this dream state, he didn't worry in the least. It felt right, as if he were born to it.

Asleep, he could reach outward without consequence, in all directions. He felt as if he could sense the whole mountain around him, just by desiring it, like his power extended far beyond himself, much like the concept of infinity.

Remembering the voice from his previous dream, he called out to it, even spoke to it in soothing tones, but it remained silent.

He continued to search, though he remained stationery, tucked warmly within the blanket of magma that swirled around him. He drew patterns with his circuits, and felt his visualization to be more appropriate than ever, as it connected him with every other piece of the mountain around him.

He could even see where he _couldn't see._ Beyond the rock, into the clear blue sky.

And, down through the mantle, farther and farther, through a pressure that created and obliterated shimmering diamonds in the mere span of a second. He extended himself far beyond the mantle and into the core - to a realm no human ever expected to see.

He felt pride.

But not his own.  
  


\---

  
Fear jolted him awake, sending him tumbling from the couch. Crawling along the floor in a daze, he reached for the others, finding each of them in turn.

They were here. They were home. He had to do it now.

Reaching within, he twisted the very fiber of his being, integrating himself with the puzzling energy. Searching for its purpose.

"John, what the hell are you doing?" one of the others asked.

His face contacted the carpet again. Another failure. His eyes fluttered and closed.

No. _No._

Forcing himself awake, he tried again. He called on his empathy - his imperative to help them - and found Freddie standing nearby. He gave a tug, but the singer's consciousness wouldn't budge, as if it were permanently anchored within the wrong body.

"John, stop!" Someone else said.

He couldn't leave it like that, though. With confusion swirling in his mind, John tried again, on Roger this time, trying to unseat everything that comprised him from Brian's body. If only he could start _somewhere..._

Something was still missing.

John felt nothing. A lack of emotion all together. The wrongness of it all made him shy away, and once more, he fell into darkness.

 _You can do this,_ he said. Or, someone else said it. He couldn't be sure.

"I can't," John said out loud, fading after another attempt, even though he accomplished nothing. He couldn't feel the others; looking up, he found himself peering into Brian's deep, dark eyes. Freddie's eyes. He was saying something.

"Just let me sleep," John said, though the voice in his head continued to offer silent encouragement.

Something about that voice made him afraid.

But the fear produced adrenaline. And the adrenaline woke him up _just enough..._

John reached out again, as he had last time, and the time before. He'd never get it. The others were arguing, their attention on each other now, instead of him. Everything was blurry.

But the irritating walls surrounding his ability began to crack, just a little. He sensed the energy... Clearer than ever, but still out of his grasp. Using his power, he poked at the minds of the others, trying to find a way to undo their plight...

He could fix it, somehow, if only he had the energy! His eyes began to close.

_Again!_

The fear shocked him awake.

How had he done it before? And _why?_ His panicked mind must have believed this specific outcome would be the right path, but John still couldn't remember much from the night of the fire.

How? _How, how, how?!_

The voice became more insistent, even as he demanded answers, pressing him to try again.

Even if John couldn't remember _everything,_ he focused on his scant recollection.

With the burning embers surrounding him, he wished it was all happening to someone else. Would the others escape? Would _he_ live? He hoped for a miracle, though the outcome looked bleak. As he lay on the floor, the house collapsing around him, his consciousness faded, but his mind opened.

And a flood of fear poured into his mind. But it wasn't his. It was theirs.

He'd taken that fear. Stolen it, really, and while the theft of that energy rendered his friends unconscious, it also enabled John to save them.

In a roundabout, convoluted sort of way.

All this time, and the answer was so simple. Of course, he wouldn't have thought of using his friends' emotions as a conduit, because why would he? And what kind of crazy ability would require something so _stupid_ to work?

Pushing himself up on his elbows, John croaked out an expletive - as loud as he could. The others stopped arguing and looked at him.

How long had he been trying this time, caught somewhere between a dream and reality? He remembered finding a cool harbor within the waves of crashing flames. Desperate, he searched for his safe haven again, and grabbed onto it.

With the last of his physical energy, John reached out for the nearest hand he could find, his fingers closing as tightly as he could muster, fingernails sinking into skin.

"What the hell?" Freddie asked.

John whimpered. All he wanted to do was sleep.

_AGAIN!_

He felt Freddie shudder and falter, which meant he was on the right track. He pushed the circuitry into the aura flittering around him, tying himself to the existence of the others. Their emotions tickled him, like the soft wings of moths dancing around a flame. From Freddie, he felt confusion. Worry. Anxiety.  

He stole it. All of it.

Bolstered now, and feeling much more awake, John reached through Freddie and pulled out his essence and memories, easily cutting them off from the body without leaving anything behind. It took much more fortitude than John ever had, but now he had energy to spare.

Freddie's face appeared comically confused for all of a second before he crashed to the floor, robbed of his consciousness and devoid of a driver.

"John, holy _shit,"_ Roger said.

"Shut up, Rog," John muttered. He felt his energy waning again, but not like before. Gritting his teeth, he pushed his circuitry farther, encompassing Roger.

"Oh," Roger said. "I don't know... if... Is Freddie..."

John stole Roger's fear, too, causing him to falter and fall to his knees. Under the fear, though, John could feel excitement and awe, even wonder, which he also took. Depression pervaded each level of emotion, affecting each one in varying levels of severity. Carefully, meticulously, John separated Roger from the dark tendrils, and removed his essence, as well.

Roger collapsed, his eyes fluttering closed.

He had two of them now, plus himself. Holding all three took more energy than he had. He was going to fail.

"You can do it, John," Brian said quietly. John looked up to see him smiling.

What would happen to Roger and Freddie if he passed out now?

He could do this. He had to succeed.

Digging his fingers into the carpet, John robbed Brian of his rampant curiosity, his hope, and the terrible, terrible heartbreak. Quickly, much less gently than he had with the others, he separated the memories from Freddie's body.

Surprised, Brian uttered a single stunned syllable before collapsing in a heap.

"Sorry, Bri," John hissed. "Running out of time..."

Now, he was _four people._ Maintaining all of them took a severe toll. If he didn't hurry, he'd lose his friends, and maybe even himself.

He began to undo his ties to Roger's body. At the last moment, he gave one last burst of instruction to himself, then let go.

John didn't feel it when it happened. His consciousness apparently couldn't take it.


	16. Status Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, you all knew he'd figure it out.

Freddie woke slowly.

He groaned, trying to force himself to sit up, but he didn't want to. Maybe he hit his head when he fell--it sure hurt enough. Grimacing, he begged for sleep to take him again, then he remembered.

"John?" he tried.

Rolling over, he opened blurry eyes. One of the others was stirring, though he couldn't tell which. He could see, though, the familiar dark color of his own skin as he held his hand in front of his face. Slowly, things came into focus.

"Brian?" he said. "Roger? Are you...?"

They looked at each other, confused for a moment, before they nodded. How long had it been since they saw the proper faces in front of them?

And Freddie had to admit, it was a little disconcerting not seeing himself among the others. He'd gotten so used to it over the past several weeks that now it almost seemed wrong. "Help me roll John over, then."

Roger crawled over to help. Together, they managed to flip him over, though John remained still. His eyes were half open - a uniform, unblinking white with no hint of John's usual soft green irises.

"What's wrong with 'im?" Roger asked. His hand rubbed at his throat, as if he was quite unused to his own rough voice.

John trembled, but remained unconscious.

"I don't know," Brian replied. "I hope he's just sleeping."

Freddie fought off the dizziness, trying to remain upright despite the spinning room. "John? Darling?" he tried, gently shaking one shoulder.

John wrinkled his nose and blinked, his breath coming in quick gasps. None of them could tell where he was looking, though - or if he was even conscious. "John?" Freddie said again.

"Did it work?" John asked.

Relief touched them all, dispelling the majority of their worry. Freddie slumped, curling next to John's side, glad for the warmth. Surprisingly, Roger followed suit, though Brian hauled himself up onto the couch, instead. "Yeah," Freddie said. "It worked."

"Excellent," John said, his voice slurred. "Wake me in a year."  
  


\---

  
"That was the builder," Brian said, hanging up the phone. "They've cleared the rubble and poured the new slab."

"Good news," Freddie said, giving John a gentle shake. John opened his eyes for a moment, muttering something about leaving him alone.

After a good day of sleep, most of them were back to normal. John, however, couldn't seem to stay awake for more than a minute or two at a time. After several days, he still spent most of his time slumbering. At least his irises were reappearing, though much more slowly than the others wanted. They were a milky green now; it looked very much like he couldn't see, but he always seemed to be able to focus.

"C'mon, John." Freddie shook him again. John sleepily flipped him off, then passed out again before he could even lower his arm.

"Aw, leave him alone. He's been through a lot," Roger said. "Besides, if he's asleep on the couch, we won't... You know. We won't lose him again."

Brian chuckled, sitting down at the computer desk. He propped his feet up on the coffee table. "Technically, he was here the whole time."

Freddie couldn't help a smile. They'd all been so sure John ran away. Sure, it made no sense, since he didn't have the energy for it, nor did it seem very like him to vanish without leaving a note. But what were they supposed to think? In the end, after hours of searching, and just as they were about to phone the police, John stumbled out of his own bathroom. He proceeded to apologize profusely because he'd fallen asleep on the toilet, and hadn't even heard them calling.

They forgave him.

John's eyes blinked open again, with a bit more awareness in their pale depths than before. He muttered something.

"What'd he say?" Brian asked.

"He wants to know how long," Freddie translated. "Before the house is done."

"As quick as possible, they hope. And it's still warm out, so they're able to get a great deal done every day. We're still looking at a few months, though." Brian's fingers drummed against the closed laptop as he lost himself in his thoughts. "I'll call insurance again, too. Make sure everything's--"

"It's fine," Roger said. "Have a little faith in people."

"I trust _people,_ " Brian said. "Insurance agents, though..."

John chuckled, stretching his arms and legs, and running his fingers through still-long hair. At some point, he'd put the grey back in, Freddie noticed. He tried to ask John about it, but he couldn't remember. He even wondered if he'd done it in his sleep.

"All right, Deaks?" Freddie asked.

He nodded, curling up against the arm of the couch again. His eyes remained open, though heavily-lidded, as if he might drift off again at any moment. It was an improvement, at least. "Glad to be myself again. You?"

"Feeling like I might hit my head on doorframes," Brian said with a half-smile, echoing Roger's sentiment from weeks ago.

"Terribly short," Roger replied.

"Calm," Freddie said. "Never realized how high strung you always are, John."

"You get used to it," John said, through a wide yawn.

Of course, he didn't seem particularly high strung at the moment, though Freddie stood by his statement. After days of being in the wrong body, anxiety seemed terribly normal, as if being ready for something to go wrong at all times made perfect sense. He understood John that much better now, he supposed.

Roger seemed particularly protective of Brian, too.

"You know, we were worried about you, John. You didn't sleep like this after the fire." Brian motioned for Freddie to scoot over, and sat down next to John in his place. He reached up to the back of the couch to give Felicia a scratch under her chin; the cat had been keeping vigil the whole time, alerting the others every time John moved.

John didn't seem to process the words at first, though he focused eventually, and nodded. "It was the effort, I think. You were right. I should have given it more time."

"You were acting weird in the end," Roger said.

Freddie threw a pillow at him, which Roger batted aside. "What?" Roger demanded. "He was!"

"You _were_ a little manic," Brian agreed.

John smiled, almost shyly, scratching his head. "I don't... Know why, entirely. I'd been having dreams. I felt something, and it kind of..." He didn't finish the statement immediately. His face blanked as he pondered, and the lull in conversation caused him to fall asleep again before he could formulate an answer.

Reaching past Brian, Freddie gave him a shake. "Dreams, you said?"

John woke again, and responded with an angry glare.

Freddie felt a sort of... _tug..._ on his consciousness, followed by a slight, creeping sense of weariness. In the same moment, Brian's hair grew back out to its normal length.

"John, you shouldn't--" Brian began.

"He bloody _didn't,_ " Freddie snapped, as John chuckled. "He used _my_ energy!"

John yawned again. "Take a nap. You'll feel better."

"How's that work, anyway?" Roger asked.

John opened one eye. "No idea."

The lack of answers remained frustrating - this talk of dreams made little sense, and now John could use the energy of others to make his power work. Still, Freddie couldn't be too upset, what with the fact that they were all back in their proper bodies.

Maybe when John could stay awake longer than a few minutes at a time, they'd have a better explanation.

But his eyes were closed now, and his face relaxed in the early stages of sleep. Further conversation would have to wait. Brian stood, pushing his curls back, and covered John with the blanket.

"It's more than we've gotten out of him before," Roger said with a sigh. "I hope this isn't... Well, I just hope he's not stuck like this. Sleeping all the time."

No one replied. They'd all been thinking it, honestly. And who could say what John's power would ultimately do to him? The night before, as John ticked off a marathon twenty hours of solid sleep, Brian hypothesized that John's abilities were almost like a cancer, slowly growing in scope and consuming him as they went.

"No, he's improving, I think," Freddie finally said. "After all, he made it, what, fifteen minutes this time? And he's not as hard to wake up now, is he?"

"I suppose not," Roger said, uncharacteristically pessimistic.

"I'm fine, you fucking herd of swine," John growled. "Shut the fuck up so I can sleep it off."

"Seems normal," Brian said.

"Seems normal," Roger agreed.


End file.
